Insignificant
by retired-fangirl
Summary: When he finds himself, fully human, returned to Domino, Japan after a year of non existence, the crash from infamy does not sit well with the spirit of the Millennium Ring. *Trigger Warning* Rated for: language, eating disorders and self injury.
1. Return

Disclaimer: I'm only saying this once, in chapter one: Yu-Gi-Oh! is owned by Kazuki Takahashi and various television networks. I do not own it, nor would I ever be able to come up with something as magnanimous as it.

A/N: Here you go guys. Chapter one!

Chapter 1: Return

…

Solomon Mouto closed Kame Game Shop on a chilly evening in mid March as the screams from the living room above the shop escalated. Solomon ran up the stairs to see what predicament warranted such a high noise level. He stopped suddenly as two people he thought were long gone fought viciously in his living room. Solomon glanced at the ancient Pharaoh Atem, at his multi-colored hair much like his grandson's, and Yami Bakura, whom Yugi had explained was the spirit embodiment of Zorc Necrophades and Thief King Bakura. He inhaled sharply.

The two spirits, Solomon assumed they were still spirits, turned at the unexpected noise. "Grandpa," Atem said, happy to see his partner's grandfather as he realized why this place had seemed so familiar.

Yami Bakura sneered and muttered something darkly under his breath. Solomon chose to ignore him and focus on the problem on hand as a whole. The year and a half after Yugi completed the Millennium Puzzle had stripped him of reacting poorly to odd situations. Instead, he sought Yugi out. Finding him sitting on the couch with a confused expression, Solomon inquired about the, presumably dead, spirits of the Millennium Puzzle and Ring.

Yugi shrugged. "I don't really know. I heard screaming..." Yugi was cut off by Yami Bakura lunging at Atem in retaliation of a comment Atem had said minutes before.

"Pathetic!" He roared, a fist curled in mid air, ready to smack against Atem's face. "You call me pathetic, Pharaoh? I'll have you know, I am darkness!" He caught Atem's neck in a tight grip.

"And I defeated you," Atem stated calmly. He stared directly into Yami Bakura's eyes, as if not noticing the trembling fist a few inches from his face. Atem smirked as Yami Bakura's other fist tightened around his neck. "Violence? How befitting for someone of your status." He looked down his nose at the expression twisting Yami Bakura's face further.

As the quarrel threatened to turn physical, and far far uglier, Yugi made a motion to his ear, mimicking a cellular phone call. Solomon blinked and imperceptivity nodded his head as the two spirits resumed their earlier fight, conveying that Yugi should, in fact, sneak off to call his group of friends before the situation became uncontrollable. Yugi walked into the kitchen to murmur quietly into the cordless phone.

"And what do you mean by that?" Yami Bakura ground out in an ugly tone.

Atem's smirk widened. "That is your only effective strategy."

Solomon placed a hand on Atem's shoulder, making sure to stay out of Yami Bakura's line of fire. Just in case. Atem jumped back, quickly composing himself when he realized where he was and who was observing his interactions. "May I ask, what is going on?"

Atem turned, dodging Yami Bakura's released punch. He cocked his head, and waved a hand in the other's direction as if to explain the entire fight, effectively shrugging off any blame. "That is not what I mean. How are you here? You both," Solomon emphasized. "Have been gone from our world for a year."

Both the spirits' eyes widened at this announcement. "How can that be?" Atem asked as Bakura cursed and muttered, "You're lying."

"The last thing I remember is walking to paradise after my duel with Yugi," Atem said. He tilted his head, trying to bring up memories of paradise, and finding he could not. He remembered the end of the ceremonial duel, the tears, the aching in his chest as he walked to the platform doors to leave this world behind, the blinding, yet beautiful and peaceful, light as the doors parted. Then nothing.

Solomon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He sat down on the couch to alleviate some of the numbness that left him feeling as if his head were severed from the rest of his body. He spoke, important necessary questions, but didn't realize what was being said until it echoed back through his brain. "What about you," he addressed Yami Bakura. His voice lowered, a testament of his dissatisfaction with the former Thief King.

The spirit of the Ring's scowl deepened. "It doesn't matter." He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned against the wall, trying to meld to the hard surface.

"The last thing he remembers is my victory against him in Millennium World," Atem boasted. Solomon sighed as Yami Bakura's expression morphed from annoyed to homicidal.

"And that's why you started fighting," he concluded. Yugi returned to the living room, bearing a small tray with four cups and a tea kettle.

"Mom was making tea while I was in the kitchen," Yugi said as explanation. He handed a cup to each spirit: an indication to sit down and drink. He neglected to mention his phone calls aloud, but at his nod, Solomon understood that backup was on its way.

…

The backup arrived in the form of three males, Joey, Tristan, and Ryou. "Hey, Yug'," Joey said as the group entered the house without knocking. Ryou and Tristan wore matching expressions of concern as they let themselves in the house. Joey plopped down on the couch, in between the two spirits and grabbed a half drunk cup of tea. He took a generous swig, before noticing the spirits.

He jumped from the couch with a high-pitched shriek and spat out the green liquid. "Bakura!" He scanned the room quickly, eyes shrinking away from the spirit of the Millennium ring to latch on to the Pharaoh Atem. "Other Yugi?" he said, before correcting himself. "Atem, you're back?" His countenance darkened. "And you're back?" He glared at Yami Bakura. His fist curled around the small tea cup.

Tristan sagged against the wall, still standing near the door, one shoe off and the other momentarily forgotten, and Ryou's face drained of any color he had. "Yami?" he whispered, his voice catching even as the long disused name sprung from his lips without his conscious volition.

At that, Yami Bakura spoke, with a hint of his former arrogance, his eyes not quite as malicious, "Partner." His tone dripped with icy venom, as if Yami Bakura was plotting on how to torment his former host, tone conveying each potential abuse once inflicted by him. "Did you miss me?"

"Oh no you don't," Tristan regained his ability to function. He kicked his remaining shoe off, stepped up into the living room, and crossed the room to stand by Joey's side, near Yami Bakura, as if trying to act as a physical barrier between Ryou and Yami Bakura.

"I wouldn't worry too much about him," Atem said. He moved to stand next to Yugi, grasping his partner's hand. He knew from Yugi's extra wide eyes and placid smile, that his partner was upset. A year spent sharing a body with the boy had its benefits. He smirked at the information he intended to provide, not at all bothered by it, but knowing full well the spirit of the Ring would be seething. "I cannot summon any of my shadow magic, so I doubt he can."

Yugi's mouth dropped, then he caught himself, and closed it. That explained the sudden screaming match and borderline fist fight he had walked into, not more than an hour ago. If the two spirits couldn't summon their magic that must mean…

"You can't use your magic?" Joey looked away from Yami Bakura, who held a glaring contest with the floor, rage intensifying even as he knew he didn't have his magic to rectify the situation.

"What does that mean?" Tristan asked.

"I have some ideas," Solomon offered, "But I think I should ask Arthur about it. And we should get in touch with the Ishtars." He clicked a finger around his own tea mug.

"Ishtars, as in Marik?" Yugi asked. He leaned forward the couch, hands folded, propped under his chin. "And what ideas?"

"I think the spirits might be human," Solomon said slowly. He studied the two spirits, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Atem shifted nervously, and Yami Bakura continued to glower. Ryou's complexion regained an iota of color, so he looked sickly pale, rather than dead. "Bring me a knife," Solomon called out suddenly to Mrs. Mouto in the kitchen.

Yugi's mom stepped out of the kitchen. "Dad?" She looked at the amount of people in the living room, swiveling her head at the sight of the two extra people whom held similar physical characteristics as her son and his friend. "What is going on?"

"Get me a knife, dear," Solomon repeated.

"Grandpa?" Yugi asked, glancing from Solomon to his mother.

Mrs. Mouto returned with a steak knife. Her face screwed up in confusion. When Solomon grasped the knife, he addressed Yami Bakura, pointing at him with the knife. "Hold out your arm," he said.

Yami Bakura raised an eyebrow. He continued to keep his arms crossed. Ryou cottoned on to what Solomon was planning to do first. "No don't!" He placed himself between Joey and Tristan, who inadvertently blocked Yami Bakura, and Solomon, who still had the knife pointed at Yami Bakura. "You can't just cut him!"

Comprehension dawned on everyone's faces. Yami Bakura glanced at Ryou without his usual look of malice momentarily, as if in thanks, before hatred clouded his features again. Mrs. Mouto quickly grabbed the knife from her father's hands, tossing him a dark look to convey her displeasure, and returned it to the kitchen.

"Why can't we?" Joey asked.

"He deserves it," Tristan agreed, "after all he put us, you, through." He emphasized Yami Bakura's treatment of Ryou as a host, the constant half-awareness, the lies, the deceit.

Ryou resolutely kept his eyes on Solomon. He ignored the silent meaning in Tristan's words or the justified anger pooling in Joey's eyes. "You said he was human, yeah? No human deserves that kind of abuse."

"But he abused you!" Atem said. At his words, everyone remembered the long periods of starvation Ryou had suffered because Yami Bakura neglected his body, along with the injuries he had inflicted on Ryou. "You didn't deserve that."

"No one does," Ryou repeated. He narrowed his eyes. He snapped in anger, "If you want to prove something, why don't you test yourself?"

A few seconds passed as the occupants of the room stared at Ryou, mostly shocked by such a brash comment. Ryou never told them off—in fact, he never told his spirit off, even though he probably deserved it. Ryou blanched, looking up at Atem with apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry, Atem. I didn't mean that. Please don't cut yourself just to prove a point."

Yami Bakura laughed, a twinge of insanity present, "As if Pharaoh would scar himself for anything or anybody." He held out a hand to indicate he wanted the returned kitchen knife. Something heavy settled in his gut, and suddenly the idea of proving if he was, in fact, human consumed him. "If you're so damn interested, I'll do it."

"I don't want you to do it either."

"I don't mind," Tristan said, and Joey nodded vehemently in agreement.

When no one handed him the knife, Yami Bakura flexed his fingers on one hand, and sank his fingernails into his bare arm. Ryou's eyes widened. Atem could only stare in horror as little beads of red appeared around Yami Bakura's fingers, tainting the skin with fresh blood.

"Jesus! I knew you were crazy," Joey exclaimed then cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence. Tristan watched silently, mind spinning, but thoroughly siding with Joey's sentiment.

As the blood stained his fingernails, and the crescent shaped wounds stung, Yami Bakura felt relief. Even the proof that he was human did not, momentarily, bother him. In that instance, the red staring out in contrast against pale skin, his anger dissipated, evaporated into a hazy mist that seemed to shroud his mind.

…

The impromptu meeting disbanded quickly after Yami Bakura had cut himself with his fingernails. "You feel okay with him?" Joey had asked Ryou after leading him to a semi-private corner.

Ryou gazed at Joey, at a loss for words. His once fearsome, manically sadist of a spirit seemed subdued somehow, like the light had been cut off. It was hard to explain, but Ryou doubted he would make an attempt to hurt him, at least not tonight. And surely they would be spending the next couple weeks before the new school year figuring out this mess. Ryou replied, "I'll be fine."

"Don't forget," Tristan butted in. "This time, he doesn't share a body with you. And you're physical health doesn't affect him anymore. He doesn't have to keep you alive." He caught Ryou's eyes, forcing the other to view the concern he and the others felt for him, the worry that Ryou's semblance of a life would crumble.

Ryou swallowed. He hadn't considered that. Even almost a year after he was freed from the spirit of the Millennium Ring, he had not forgotten Yami Bakura's negligence and general lack of concern regarding his welfare, nor the havoc it wreaked on him. Still, he reassured Joey and Tristan, if only out of habit. "Guys, I'm sure it will be fine. I promise to keep my mobile on tonight, okay?"

He waved the brand new cellular phone at Joey and Tristan. A few weeks ago, out of guilt surely, Ryou's father had bought and express mailed him a top-of-the-line clamshell style cellular phone, with a promise to replace it when the rumored cellular phones with internet access became available (even as early as next year, they were saying). Ryou noticed Joey's face cloud with jealousy, and he immediately felt bad for waving around something none of his friends could afford, aside from Tea maybe.

"If you're sure?" Joey said, envy making him a bit more pliable. Ryou flashed another smile and repeated his assurances.

Ryou rushed his goodbyes, wanting to be away from the stress of the group and their needling concerns, but also afraid of what would happen when he and Yami Bakura were alone. He steeled himself for the long night that awaited them as he closed the door to the Mouto's and started their trek to his apartment.

…

A/N:

Arthur is Professor Hawkins/Hopkins, Rebecca's grandfather. He's not going to play much of a role in this, but I think Solomon would refer to him on a first name basis if we're using English names (speaking of which).

I know the names of the characters are going to be an issue. It's kind of like teaching an old dog new tricks, just not going to happen. I tried to use the proper Japanese names, but three paragraphs later, I would find myself typing Tea rather than Anzu or Joey rather than Jounouchi. So I apologize for that. I do try to keep this relevant to Japanese culture because Yugioh is originally Japanese.

Clamshell (flip) cell phones did exist in 1998 (which is when I place this story in the Yugioh verse), but from what I could tell (from the god that is wiki), they were very expensive. Also, Japan was the first country to have cell phones that could access the internet, which was available in 1999. I imagine in 1998, there would be rumors about it. Sorry if the information is incorrect (wiki). I was nine in 1998, and didn't acquire a cell phone for another ten years.


	2. Long Journey Ahead

A/N: I apologize if I seemed abrupt in replying to all your reviews. I actually did really appreciate them! ^_^ Long story short, I hurt myself badly enough that it basically hurts to be awake, and, in her way of showing motherly concern, my mother forces me into positions (sitting) that just hurt, which is what I was doing when I replied to reviews.

I was going to have this chapter out on Thursday (early because, why not? It was basically done), but I finally felt well enough to finish it today. I'm sure I'll regret lying around tomorrow when the pain drugs wear off. But, enjoy!

Chapter 2: Long Journey Ahead

…

Yami Bakura followed his former host to his apartment. He could've found the way himself, but he was perfectly content to trail behind Ryou. The droplets of blood had long since dried and caked over on his arm. Along with the fresh blood, the pain had faded. He felt light headed with the maelstrom of thoughts swirling around his head; everything about today, the unexpected return, jumbling within his head. Bakura bit the inside of cheek, desperate to not let the thoughts form fully. A part of him laughed at himself, the great Zorc Necrophades reduced to practically a sniveling schoolboy. At least he thought he as a schoolboy, if his, now human, body was the same age as Ryou. Was his host still in school?

He remembered that Yugi's grandfather had been surprised by his and Pharaoh's presence, so that must mean the boy and his former host were most likely under the age of majority. Hadn't Solomon said almost a year had passed? Bakura calculated time on a general continuum. He theorized, if a year had passed or just under a year, this was Ryou's final year of high school.

The questions in his mind came seeping out into full formed thoughts, and Yami Bakura crunched his teeth on to the soft flesh of his inner cheek. He hissed at the unexpected pain, all the while grateful for the momentary ceasing of thoughts. Ryou glanced back, halting with digging in his jeans pocket for his apartment key. "Are you alright?" he asked, proper and polite as ever.

Once Ryou opened the door, Yami Bakura brushed past him. He scowled at his host's kindness. No one could be that considerate—that kind—to someone like him. Hell, even he knew he was not worthy of any sort of pseudo forgiveness. "I'm fine."

"Okay. Good." Ryou smiled faintly. He neatly hung his winter coat on the coat hanger and slipped off his shoes in the genkan. Yami Bakura flung the black jacket he had been wearing when he and Atem appeared in Yugi's living room on the floor, and stepped up into the apartment in his shoes. He relished Ryou's pained look at the gregarious social faux pas. "Would you like some tea? I could make you steak. Rare, right?" Ryou asked, automatically offering Yami Bakura's favorite dish.

"I'm tired. I want to sleep." Ryou smiled, at the words rather than the harsh tone. Finding Yami Bakura a place to sleep was an easy enough task. With three rooms in his apartment plus the living room couch, there were more than enough areas to slumber.

"Um, you could sleep in my room, or I could prepare the guestroom?" He inwardly winced as his tone lost any confidence he had gained since last summer, softening and dragging out the syllables, and he reverted back into the sad, pathetic vessel of his spirit. Yami Bakura sneered. He must have noticed the compliant tone also.

"Sleep in your own room," Yami Bakura snarled. He stormed down the hallway to one of the two guestrooms. He chose the one near the bathroom, adjacent to Ryou's bedroom. That guestroom was hardly ever used, and hadn't been dusted properly since Ryou had moved in. The door to the room slammed shut, and Ryou heard Yami Bakura, he assumed, throwing himself on the bed. Ryou glanced outside, at the late afternoon setting sun. He hoped Yami Bakura didn't wake before he did; going to bed so early.

…

Yami Bakura flung himself on the bed in his chosen room, the former guest room, or, as he glanced around the room from his position on the bed, he deduced the room had been Ryou's sanctuary for his table top RPGs. He noted the shelves and shelves behind glass where Ryou kept his role playing figurines. A twisted smile threatened to tug his lips upwards as Yami Bakura remembered the significance behind them. He sat up to get a better view of the table top game. And, by the looks of the table, Ryou was creating a new RPG game. That could be fun.

The realization that he was human crashed over him again, leaving him high and dry, disoriented as the smirk vanished from his countenance, replaced with a sullen grimace. He leaned forward, long white hair falling to cover his face, as something heavy attacked his gut. He gritted his teeth and rubbed a hand on his arm where the leftover scratch marks ignited enough pain, enough burning tingle, to mask the thoughts screaming in his head.

His legs hurt as he leaned forward, pressing his elbows into the meat of his thighs. He bit his lip, all the while rubbing furiously at his injured arm, as the pressing weight, the tingling in his nerve endings, reminded him of his mortality. Someday, he would, eventually, die. But, between then and the present, he would suffer degrading illnesses, from sniffles and hacking coughs his host was prone to in the winter, to lengthier, ongoing, life sentences.

He swallowed down the bitter liquid pooling in his throat. He narrowed his eyes, boring his gaze into the far wall. Through this all, he would have to thrive, to adapt, to survive this new world, this modern society, where he wasn't a spirit embodiment of two malingering souls. A tiny voice, almost indiscernible even to himself, cried out at the impossible task placed upon him, by whatever being choice to spit him and the Pharaoh back into existence.

He breathed out a heavy sigh, as a crushing weight tore his breath away. Yami Bakura flopped down upon the bed, winding his arms under his head as a makeshift pillow. He gazed up at the ceiling, resolutely shoving away his fears as he studied the intricate paint design, at the swirling brush strokes, as if the painter had dipped fork tines into semi-dry paint. He lost himself in the swirling pattern of the ceiling until he awoke to the same fears he desperately tried to ignore.

…

Ryou awoke before the spirit of the Millennium Ring the next morning. He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, nerves turning over themselves. The fear made his stomach queasy, so before the sun had properly risen, Ryou was seated in the living room, a cup of tea in one hand and a notepad in the other. He supposed he should prioritize his thoughts whilst plotting out the needs of the two spirits. At the very least, it would calm his nerves.

Okay, he thought. Both Atem and Yami Bakura had returned from wherever the two had been. Neither, at the present, could remember where they had been or that time had passed. Ryou knew that almost a year had passed since the ceremonial duel last summer. He wasn't sure how to fix this predicament, or if there was even a solution, so he moved on to his next thought.

Yesterday, Mr. Mouto had wanted to contact Professor Hawkins and the Ishtars to provide proof of the spirits' humanity. Ryou assumed Mr. Mouto wanted to utilize Professor Hawkins academia connections, now that he worked as a professor of archaeology at a prestigious university. And the Ishtars, Ryou contemplated as he twirled his pen. Was Mr. Mouto trying to find out if Marik Ishtar's darkness had also returned? He wrote "contact Ishtars" and some of his thoughts about them down.

Getting a hold of the Ishtars could be difficult, Ryou mused. What he knew of the Ishtars is that Ishizu worked in the Egyptian government, so depending on the nature of her employment. And Marik: well last he knew, Marik was a rouge who had disbanded from Ishizu. He jotted down that Marik, Ishizu, and Odion had been looking forward to their freedom, so they could have moved, especially after the Pharaoh had passed onto paradise. Ryou's throat tightened, and he felt the tea he had been sipping start to slide back up his throat. He sucked in a deep breath.

Perhaps he should move on to more practical worries. Like clothes, food, permanent housing, even public schooling for the spirit of the Millennium Ring and Atem. Money could be a problem, Ryou reasoned. As he thought on this problem, slowly forming a viable answer, he felt his throat loosen and the tea settled in his stomach.

…

A loud crash and the horrific sound of glass shattering and dropping, each shard tinkling as it made contact with the floor, caused Ryou to finally look up from the multiple pages he had written on with tiny, perfect writing. "Voice?" he called, instinctively referring to the spirit of the Millennium Ring by the only term he had ever used, before standing up. He crossed the living room and stood outside the bathroom door at the edge of the hallway. "Um, do you need help?" he asked awkwardly, a half attempt after butchering a non-name for the spirit that had been part of him for so long, yet remained without a name.

"Go away." Yami Bakura's voice betrayed no awareness that Ryou had acknowledged his lack of identity.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" Ryou tried again. He leaned against the wooden door, just making out the sound of ragged gasps from the bathroom. For a moment, Ryou feared Yami Bakura was plotting to attack him with a glass shard. He steadied himself, shaking his head and rooting his feet to the ground outside the door. The spirit was human, so an impromptu attack, especially with glass, was something Ryou could likely dodge if necessary.

"I-I'm fine. Go away." Yami Bakura's voice sounded odd, detached, yet something made him pause. Ryou brushed it off as an effect of muffling from the door.

"Are you sure? I could help you pick up the glass?" Ryou offered.

"No. I'll get it." Did he sound panicked? Ryou knitted his forehead.

"Okay," Ryou gave one more, subtle, offer. "I guess I'll prepare you breakfast." As Ryou walked away, he thought he heard a sigh. Of relief? He wondered. Why would he be relieved? He chose to put the thoughts aside. Questioning Yami Bakura had never gone over well and now that the spirit had a separate body: Tristan's words washed over him in a cold wave. Human or not, Ryou certainly didn't want to attempt evading any sort of assault from Yami Bakura.

…

Yami Bakura stared into the bathroom mirror, stared at his reflection. He scowled at the face that looked back at him, at the sickly pale skin, too thin physique, at the shadows under his eyes. And his eyes: taking in the brown orbs flecked with hints red, unlike Ryou's, which were light, his eyes were opaque, like lumps of clay. Yami Bakura couldn't quite place what exactly was off about his eyes.

He sneered to cover the slickness in the back of his throat, the anxiety rising as a silent scream, threatening to turn physical. He swallowed. The mirror loomed in his direct view. It proved inescapable, and the desperation, the silent scream rushed over him, boiling in his stomach.

He clenched the edges of the sink, wondering why he felt this way. He raised his head, forcing himself to look at the grim sight. He had been the great Thief King Bakura; he had been fused with Zorc Necrophades. Bakura gritted his teeth against the awful sensation in his throat. It pressed uncomfortable, always present, like a lump he just could not swallow.

He teeth ached as he pressed them together tightly against the tingling in his lips. He blinked against the buzzing at the corner of his eyes, and cursed himself for whatever these sensations were. When the foreign lump dislodged itself from his throat, he gasped in a shaky breath. He had to halt this… This cacophony, the buzzing at his eyes, the pounding starting in his head, the ache like a vise clamped against his heart, the everything that threatened to overwhelm him, that threatened to consume him from the inside out. The slickness in his throat returned.

He had been aware of his hand smashing into the mirror even before he acted. It wasn't like a melodrama where he blinked back in confusion, trying to pinpoint the source of pain, the reasons and logic behind the intense pain. It just was. Yami Bakura raised his hand, curled into a fist, fully cognizant of everything, of the stabbing in his chest, the fucking thing stopping up his throat, his breaths coming in gasps. He sucked in a breath, body reacting slightly faster than his brain.

As images of blood welling against his arm, staining the tips of his fingernails red, Yami Bakura punched the mirror. His hand connected, with an audible crack, sending spider web cracks along the mirror in the opposite direction of the point of origin. A tinkling filled his ears as glass shards rained to the floor. Now, as he stared into the mirror, partially zoned out in the pleasant fog similar to the day before, all he could make out were four splotches of bright red blood staining the once smooth surface. He inhaled, pleased to note how much easier he breathed without his body reacting strangely.

The pain didn't register until Ryou questioned him from the hallway, a sharp, bruising pain interspersed with shooting jabs that occupied every thought, enough to keep the rising panic at bay long enough to make small conversation with his former host. He deterred Ryou's questioning long enough to clean up the worse of the mess and bandage his hand, similar to the time he stabbed Ryou. His hand shook pleasantly as the pain kept his mind blissfully blank; he plucked a shard from the mirror and pocketed it without considering why.

…

A/N:

A genkan is probably closest to a foyer or a mudroom. It's a room in most Japanese homes where everyone is expected to take off their shoes before entering, rather than a mudroom where it is generally considered polite to remove your shoes. Some business and schools have lockers where students put their outdoor shoes and slip on indoor shoes. In a home, socks or slippers are usually accepted.

I don't know if paint for ceilings is common in Japan. I could probably find out, but I personally love staring at paintings (I use paintings loosely; really anything with paint) and at the individual brush strokes, so I foisted this interest on Yami Bakura.

In my other two fanfictions (in case anyone has read them and plans to call me out on terminology haha), I use the term toilet to describe the room with a toilet, because a bath/shower is in a separate room from the toilet. However, apartments in Japan do combine the two sometimes. In my head, while writing this, I imagine Ryou's apartment has a bathroom with a toilet and shower/bath, and a toilet (or our equivalent of a half bath). …I promise this detail will be important in about six chapters.

I also promise the name confusion for our two main characters will clear up in chapter five. ^_^


	3. Discussions and the Obligatory Mall Scen

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy chapter three.

Chapter 3: Discussions and the Obligatory Mall Scene

…

Yami Bakura walked into the kitchen, just as Ryou was finishing his steak. Ryou noticed the bandage on Yami Bakura's hand as he set the steak onto a plate to rest before he served it to the spirit of the Millennium Ring. He ignored the sickening smell of cooked beef, akin to the rot of flesh, wafting from the steak, choosing to fix himself another cup of tea.

"Is your hand alright?" he asked in what he hoped was a polite tone, devoid of the nausea that churned in his gut.

Yami Bakura nodded, before realizing Ryou couldn't see him as he still had his back turned, making that stinking tea of his. "Fine," he muttered at Ryou set the dripping steak in front of him, along with a knife and fork. Ryou sat down across from him with his tea. Yami Bakura watched as Ryou held the steaming cup with both hands, constantly running his hands and fingers all over the expanse of the small cup. The longer he watched, Yami Bakura noticed the repetitive pattern Ryou's fingers completed as he routinely grasped at his mug in a queer manner.

"You're cooking skills aren't up to par," he commented after his second bite of the steak, forcing himself to remove his focus from Ryou's fingers smudging patterns into the porcelain cup. Sure the food was good, but Ryou had been a superb cook when he had made food for Yami Bakura last time. Not that Yami Bakura would ever admit that fact aloud.

"Um, sorry. I don't eat steak much." Ryou apologized, sipping on his tea after he spoke.

"Well, you should. You wouldn't be so pale if you ate bloody steak." Yami Bakura cut a piece, and Ryou watched as some blood dribbled onto the plate, staining the white porcelain a light pink with each drop. Yami Bakura popped the large-ish piece in his mouth, chewing with his mouth half open. Ryou felt his nose scrunching and lips curling as he watched the gnashing of Yami Bakura's teeth against the chunk of meat, all squishing into a matted jumble of saliva and clotted meat lumps. He ducked his head so the spirit wouldn't see his disgusted sneer. His earlier nausea returned full force, and Ryou clasped a hand over his mouth, running from the room.

Yami Bakura shrugged at Ryou's response, and continued cutting and eating his steak. It bled similarly to how his knuckles had bled when he had punched out the mirror, running across the flat surface of his plate in little rivulets. He stared at his knife as he cut the thick piece of meat; would his skin part as smoothly with a couple hacks with a knife? He held the knife out, suspended in midair, and brought his unbandaged hand up to meet the knife. He cautiously poked at the knife with his index finger.

Ryou's loud retching in the bathroom made him drop the knife. It fell with a clatter against the table. As Ryou gagged and coughed, Bakura found he didn't have much of an appetite anymore, the bite of steak in his mouth dry and chewy. He threw out the remaining steak and placed his dishes in the sink. Out of habit, he reasoned.

…

When Ryou and Yami Bakura returned to the Mouto residence to hopefully find a solution to this mess, Yugi's living room was already occupied by Joey, Tristan, and Tea, plus Yami Yugi and Yugi. "Morning, Ryou," Joey greeted around a yawn. He pointedly ignored Yami Bakura, who leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed. He kept his injured hand tucked under his arm.

Ryou acknowledged the occupants in the room with polite hellos and good mornings, and then revealed the lists he finished after the awkward breakfast.

As he thumbed through the pages filled with Ryou's cramped writing, Tristan breathed out a low whistle, "Did you eat or sleep, at all, Bakura?"

Ryou shrugged, hoping the question would die with Tristan. Tea and Joey shot him concerned looks. He glanced down at his lists, examining the contents akin to writing worthy of Moses' stone tablets. "Um, I put together a list of how we should approach this situation."

"What do you mean?" Atem asked from his spot on the couch next to Yugi. Ryou smiled at Atem's curiosity, and everyone's attention shifting from his personal life.

"Well, for one, as Mr. Mouto said last night, we do need to contact the Ishtars. Has Marik's darkness returned?" Ryou asked in a rush, to keep the conversation about the lists as a priority.

"_Can_ he return?" Tea asked. Yugi had called her late last night to explain about the return of the two spirits. Her disheveled appearance reflected this; she was dressed casually in an oversized sweater and jeans, rather than her usual poised outfits.

"Those two returned." Tristan waved his hand across the room, starting at Atem and finishing at Yami Bakura.

"They aren't a deranged figment of Yugi or Ryou's imagination," Joey said.

"He's evil incarnate!" Tristan jabbed a finger in Yami Bakura's direction, still leaning on the wall closest to the door and genkan. Yami Bakura uncrossed his arms, absently rubbing at the bandage that covered his injured knuckles. The prickling, stinging pain rushed over him, drowning out the worst of his sardonic opinions, opinions that weren't worth stating out loud in his minority position.

"What are you doing, Bakura?" Yami Yugi noticed his enemy's strange actions. Paranoia made him shout.

Yami Bakura dropped his hands to his side, subconsciously tucking the bandaged hand into the folds of his clothes. "Nothing," he said.

Tea looked between the two spirits. Her eyes lingered over Yami Bakura's half hidden hand. "Are you hurt?" she asked, noticing a glimpse of the stark white of his bandage.

"I'm fine, dammit!" He scanned the room, eyes roaming frantically. He let himself meet Ryou's eyes, just daring his host to utter a word about the broken mirror.

Ryou chose to not reveal the nature of the spirit of the Ring's injury, hastily jotting down another thought. How should the two spirits be addressed? He let the pen close with a loud click. "We should still try to get in touch with the Ishtars, regardless." He gave the others a few moments to return their attention to the discussion. "Do we have a phone number or email? Or postal address?"

"They lived in a makeshift tomb for their whole lives," Joey said. He formed the shape of a pyramid with exaggerated hand motions.

"Marik owned a motorcycle," Yami Bakura offered.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Joey shot back. He raised his hands into fists, parodying a threatening stance from his sitting position on the floor.

"That's a good point," said Yugi, the air of reason. "After the Pharaoh was sealed away, their jobs as tomb keepers was complete. They probably moved out of the tomb."

"Ishizu did seem familiar with the Egyptian and our governments," Tea said.

Yugi nodded in agreement. "We should get in contact, even if Marik's darkness didn't return. They are Atem's tomb keepers."

"Right. They should be informed." Ryou noted this on a fresh sheet of paper. He flipped back to his original list. "What about financial expenses? Living arrangements?"

"What do you mean?" asked Joey. He absently shuffled his worn Duel Monsters' deck.

Ryou raised his head to gaze at Joey. Of all his friends, Joey should understand about fending for himself and monetary costs. "It will take money to clothe and feed these two. Even my dad would notice if I started spending more."

"You're right," Yugi said. He glanced at Atem apologetically. "Grandpa mentioned he would need extra help if this became a permanent thing."

"Partner, I could apply for work," Atem said immediately.

Yugi shook his head. "Grandpa wants you to attend public school, if you plan to live here. Mom agreed."

"I don't want to be a burden, Yugi."

"Feh," Yami Bakura muttered.

Atem shot him a look that clearly said: of course you wouldn't care. Yami Bakura shuffled his feet, still leaning against the wall. He suppressed the urge to remove his injured hand from his pocket to help remove himself mentally from the conversation.

"I had an idea, though." Ryou tapped the pen against the page where the words "contact Seto Kaiba" were just legible. "Kaiba saw the final duel. I don't think he would ever admit it, but he know about the spirits..." he trailed off as the majority of faces shot him disbelieving looks

"Rich boy, Kaiba?" Joey scoffed. He gestured rudely in the air. "As if he would help us."

"He might be willing." Tea attempted to smooth out her impossibly baggy sweater. "I think he has changed since Duelist Kingdom."

"Right, Tea," Atem said.

"Alright I'm bored." Joey fanned his deck out in front of him. "Who wants to duel?" Ryou ducked his head, glancing down at his lists. He still had another couple pages expanding on every intricate detail of how the two, maybe three, spirits would be able to adapt to life in 1998. Shoving a fistful of hair behind his ear in frustration, Ryou flipped through the pages. He had even broken down a rough schedule for him and his spirit. Not that he really expected Yami Bakura to follow it, nor did he plan to reveal that information to the group.

"Hey, don't be rude, Joey." Tea noticed Ryou's slouch. "Ryou still has more on his list."

Tristan piped in, sitting cross legged next to Joey, "But it's boring."

"You should be grateful someone thought of these things," Tea said. She placed a hand on Ryou's back. "Go on," she urged.

"Oh, um. We got through the important parts, I suppose." He tilted his head in the direction of Joey's still fanned cards. "I haven't watched a duel in a while."

"Okay!" Joey stood up. He thrusted an arm up at Yami Yugi, who cocked his head. "It's time to duel, Atem!"

"Hold it. We need to call Kaiba first," Tea reminded them. Joey glowered, but Atem and he rest of the group stood and followed Tea to the wall phone in the kitchen.

"Tea is right. Besides, I don't have a deck anymore."

Joey's idea for an impromptu match was forgotten by the everyone as Tea was directed to Kaiba Corp's CEO office and started to speak. "Hello, Seto Kaiba? It's Tea Gardner..."

…

The next few days passed in a blur for both spirits. Ryou and Yugi had agreed to the clothes shopping as a group, using Solomon's credit card as a loan. Yami Bakura and Atem received new clothing, mostly attire for late winter, long sleeved tops and long bottoms, an assortment of underpants and socks.

"Do you think this'll be enough?" Ryou asked Yugi, as the four found a place to sit in the fast food joint in the shopping mall. They set the numerous bags underneath a table large enough for the four of them.

"I think so," Yugi replied. "I really hope Kaiba comes through."

Ryou nodded. He pointed at the bags, then at the food line. "I'll wait here while you guys get food."

"Okay. Do you want anything?" Yugi asked.

"Just a green tea." Yugi nodded and Yam Bakura scoffed. Ryou hoped he would keep silent about his lack of breakfast, and now lack of lunch. He didn't want to upset Yugi, but he did not trust his stomach not to rebel. Ever since the spirits had returned, Ryou found it hard to keep even a cup of tea down.

Ryou looked down, underneath the plastic table, at the clothes bags as the two spirits and Yugi stood in line. Atem had filled his new wardrobe with tight fitting clothing, with a few sweaters and warm clothes. But mostly leather. Ryou shook his head as snippets of the former Pharaoh and Yugi arguing over what was considered acceptable clothing choices flashed through his mind. He was glad he wasn't responsible for that bill. His spirit had bought mostly slouch clothing. Baggy jeans, a solid leather belt, numerous winter tees and a couple good quality hooded sweaters.

Apparently his own apparel choices had influenced Yami Bakura. Today, he wore slightly baggy khaki pants and a loose fitting collared shirt. Ryou chalked up Yami Bakura's clothing preferences to years of dressing as himself.

Ryou looked up as a container of fries was shoved in his direction, along with a steaming cup of tea in a plastic take away container. He looked at Yami Bakura. "Yugi thought you might want some," was all Yami Bakura said as he bit into his burger.

Ryou sighed, plucking up a fry and tearing the top half off with his front teeth. "Thanks."

Atem watched Ryou delicately bite his fries in half, discarding the bitten halves back into the container. Ryou finished about half his fries in the same time Atem had eaten his burger and own fries. He let his gaze linger until a blush rose in Ryou's cheeks, then he focused on Yami Bakura, who paid no mind to Ryou as he devoured his meal. Yugi was also watching Ryou with a frown on his face.

"Are you alright Ryou?" Yugi asked, dipping one of his last fries in a small dredge of ketchup.

"Yeah. Just an upset stomach." Ryou grabbed a fry from his makeshift plate of napkins. He bit into it, discreetly placing the other half into the fry container. Atem didn't think Yugi noticed the action, for his partner nodded and chewed his own fry.

"Got that right," Yami Bakura said between bites. "I hear him every morning barfing like some knocked up bitch."

"Yami Bakura!" Atem shouted. Both Ryou and Yami Bakura looked up. Fear showed in Ryou's light brown eyes.

Yugi continued to look at Ryou, as if trying to telepathically seep knowledge out of Ryou, long after Ryou stammered out how he had been feeling ill, but didn't want to bother anyone—especially with the newest predicament.

"Does he affect you that much?" Atem asked Ryou as he followed the other boy into the toilet, after Ryou had excused himself.

"What do you mean?" Ryou ran his fingertips along the cool smooth surface of the mirror above the sinks. Atem gave Ryou a once-over. For the most part, he looked healthy. Tired, but healthy. In fact he looked a little less sickly than he had before Millennium World.

"Yami Bakura. He's not hurting you, is he?"

Ryou quickly shook his head. "No. Mostly he locks himself in the guestroom. I guess it would be his room now, huh?" He gestured towards the stalls with a wave of his hand, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Could I?"

Atem's eyes widened, realization dawned on him. Ryou wanted some privacy. "Of course," he said, making his exit.

Atem shut the door behind him. He found himself looking into Yugi's frowning eyes. From across the food court, he could see Yami Bakura at their table staring at the general direction of the toilets. "Partner?"

Yugi shook his head. "It's nothing." But, before turning away to walk back to the table, Atem caught a glimpse of Yugi's expression, and his face didn't look like "it's nothing."

…

A/N:

In case anyone picked up on this, Joey called Ryou Bakura, Ryou, while Tristan called him Bakura for reasons… That will be revealed later on. It wasn't a mistake.

This may or may not be well known, but Japanese malls are very similar to alls elsewhere in the world, complete with food courts and fast food joints. The only real difference might be how clean everything is or the use of Japanese. On youtube, TheJapanChannelDcom recently uploaded a tour of a Japanese mall if you're interested (I love this guy). I would link it, but I think still has links disabled?


	4. Meeting Kaiba

A/N: Hey, a really early update! Now, this is where the other shoe drops. I'm updating this early, partially because it was an easier chapter to edit (unlike chapter 5, which is going to be awful), and I have a really important doctor's appointment tomorrow that could affect my writing. Well, it could be affecting a lot of things, including graduating on time and other happy real world stuff. Or it could affect nothing and my injury could be instantly cured by something the specialist does. Basically, I don't know, so I thought I would release a chapter just in case.

Chapter 4: Meeting Kaiba

…

Atem was pleasantly surprised to hear Seto Kaiba's voice on the answering machine after he and Yugi returned home from their clothes shopping. Arms laden with bags, Yugi played back the message and the tinny recorded voice of the CEO requested a meeting for the next day, "A limo will be waiting at ten o'clock."

Yugi said with a grin, "This is fantastic!" Atem nodded, and the two carried the many bags up to the former guestroom that had been converted, with Grandpa's and Mrs. Mouto's help, to a bedroom. Grandpa had even dug out last year's dueling posters for Atem to hang on his walls. The once guestroom looked very much like a bedroom, especially with the bags of clothes the two boys simply left on the floor, laundry abandoned for calling the group to relay Kaiba's meeting, then video games.

…

"That's good. Well let's hope for the best tomorrow?" Ryou concluded. Yugi had been chattering excitedly about Kaiba's requested meeting, but Ryou wasn't too sure. Kaiba had come around to sort of admit in believing the Millennium items ad magical objects and their past lives, but he worried the CEO would not be willing to dispense money, a lot of money, for the ancient spirits that had not treated him very kindly, especially not the spirit of the Millennium Ring.

"Who was that?" Yami Bakura slunk into the kitchen, past Ryou, during the middle of his phone conversation. Ryou gasped, placing a hand to his chest.

"Voice, you startled me." He set the phone back on the stand. "It was Yugi. Kaiba requested we meet him tomorrow."

Yami Bakura scowled. He fisted his right hand in the pocket of his jeans. He had been wearing this particular pair of jeans for the past few days, since he had returned to the world. He recognized them as a former favorite pair of jeans of Ryou's, but he doubted Ryou could fit into them. The jeans fit perfectly on his frame; he looked similar to Ryou had before Millennium World: pale, sickly, and thin. "Whatever," he said to cover the brief flash of emotion he felt.

"Please," Ryou coaxed. "It'll only be an hour or so. We really need the money, yeah?"

Yami Bakura glanced at Ryou. Ryou had gained some weight, enough to look healthy, though a touch anemic. His clothing still hung on his frame, as if Ryou was hiding his body. "I'm sure we won't have to take into account your food budget," he said with a nasty smirk on his face. "Though," he pretended to ponder thoughtfully, "Your starvation diet isn't very effective." Yami Bakura's ugly smirk widened as he seemed to critique Ryou's silhouette—in all fairness, the boy hadn't gained all that much since Yami

Bakura had seen him last year, but years of habitual degrading made the words spring to his lips.

As Ryou's eyebrows shot into his white bangs, and the edges of his mouth crinkled into frown lines, Yami Bakura stepped forward, advancing like the starved predator. Ryou, prey as always, ducked his head, and turned on one heel, running off to his room. To cry, a horrible voice cackled somewhere behind Yami Bakura's ears. He clenched his hand in his jeans pocket tightly, feeling the mirror shard break the skin on his palm. He wondered why Ryou's upset had any effect on him; he never cared about Ryou's state of mind before.

Yami Bakura retreated to his own room, glass shard in hand. He closed the door, locking it behind him. He sank to the floor, eyes burning behind half closed lids, trying to suppress the strange feeling in his gut, and the tightness in his chest, all as if a caterpillar nestled and burrowed in his abdomen, threatening to spill over. Instead, he rolled back his shirt sleeves, examining the couple day old crescent finger marks on his left arm and the miniscule scrapes on his knuckles. He exhaled as he tapped the healing wounds with his fingers. A jolt of pain on his knuckles, then a slight twitch from the faded cuts on his arm stopped his thoughts cold.

He felt a small twinge in his right hand where the mirror shard nicked his skin. Yami Bakura brought the shard up to eye level. He watched with interest as the light cast miniscule rainbows on the rough surface, creating beauty in the jagged edge. He placed the shard against his arm, remembering the relief that digging his nails into his arm had given him, remembering the satisfaction he felt as the bathroom mirror shattered after connecting with his fist, remembering the blood welling up, staining his fingernails, his knuckles, his newly developed conscience.

He cut into his arm, before realizing what he planned on doing. The shard scraped against his skin, quickly, angrily. The pain was sharp and focused. Blood droplets collected on his skin; red bled into pale white. He cut again, intently focused on dragging the shard through the tender skin of his forearm, pressing down against the glass shard enough to leave indents and nicks on the tips of his fingers. He pursed his lips together, preventing the pain from overwhelming him, letting it blossom slowly on each nerve as he pulled the glass shard, slowly.

He exhaled out the pain as the incision filled a tiny line of bright red along his arm. As he watched the blood gather into small pools around the cuts, and slowly dribble down his arm, drying into crusty tendrils not too far from the wounds, Yami Bakura forgot about everything, his world narrowing down into a blur of pain and sticky red, calming his racing heart, forcing his world view to a standstill as the sensations overflowed his senses.

…

Kaiba had requested only the two spirits, Yugi, and Ryou attend the meeting, so when a limo pulled up in front of Kame Game Shop, only those four climbed in. Atem glanced at Ryou in his baggy sweater, at Yami Bakura in a dark long sleeved tee shirt, then at Yugi who had worn a lighter shirt in celebration of the beginnings of spring. Atem dressed similarly to Yugi. He figured it would do to make a good impression with the one who would be, essentially, giving him money.

"Sleep well?" Atem asked in an effort to break the nervous silence. Yami Bakura grunted, rubbing his right arm. His facial features were smooth and calm. Atem doubted he had ever seen Yami Bakura with such a relaxed expression. Hell, with any expression besides hatred and homicidal. Ryou shrugged. His face looked pinched and drawn. He had obvious bags under his eyes. Only Yugi looked well rested. Though he was biting on his pinky nail.

Atem tried a different tactic. He remembered Ryou's exhaustive list of concerns. "How do you suppose this will work?" He glanced at Ryou, who instantly became more alert. Cleverness lit up his sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes.

Ryou tapped the tips of his fingers together and leaned forward, across the gap between his and Yami Bakura's seat and Atem's and Yugi's. "Kaiba is the only self sufficient teenage billionaire we know. Plus he is aware of the spirits, whether he will admit it aloud. We have to hope Kaiba feels even an iota of compassion."

"We're at his mercy," Atem finished. His chest clenched. This could be very very bad.

"We're fucked," Bakura said, in an eerily calm voice that matched his vacant expression. He rubbed again at a spot on his covered forearm.

"We need to be hopeful, guys. I'm sure Kaiba will be reasonable." Yugi said as they approached Kaiba Corp headquarters.

…

"Again with this magic bullshit?" Kaiba slammed a hand down on his desk, disturbing a mountain of paperwork in the process. The papers fell to the floor in a swoosh. Out of reflex, Yugi and Ryou knelt down to pick to the fallen papers. "Don't touch those! That's confidential." Ryou jerked back as he jumped back into a standing position. He swayed slightly before Kaiba's strong hand grasped the hood of his sweater.

"Thanks," Ryou murmured, but Kaiba ignored him. He crossed the small distance to Yami Yugi and Yam Bakura.

"You look familiar," he said after a minute. Yami Bakura kept his head down, right hand reaching into his left sleeve to scratch at the cuts on his arm. That damn conscience of his reminded him to be silent for Ryou's sake.

"Yes Kaiba," Atem said through gritted teeth. Kaiba had stated that three or four times in the past half hour, and Atem's patience was wearing thin. Kaiba stalked back to his computer, a laptop had replaced his old desktop, stepping over the strewn papers with ease. He punched a button on the intercom as his other hand typed something into the computer.

"Send Mokuba up." he spoke into the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Kaiba."

Kaiba leaned his weight on the desk, both palms planted into the wood as he alternated between comparing whatever was on the computer screen and Yugi, Ryou, Yami Bakura, and Atem. Mokuba entered the room shortly after, closing the door behind him, as recognition transformed Kaiba's face, his eyes widening and his lips parting in a silent gasp.

"Yugi!" the younger Kaiba brother exclaimed.

"Come here, Mokuba," Kaiba commanded, and Mokuba immediately walked over to his brother's side. He also stepped over the papers, barely noticing them. "Look." He pointed at the screen.

"Battle City finals?" Mokuba questioned.

"Right." Kaiba scrutinized the spirits. "You won," he jabbed a finger in Atem's direction. "And you snuck in, scoring the eighth spot in my tournament." He pointed at Yami Bakura, who froze, still scratching at the wound under his sleeve.

Yami Bakura curled his lips into a sneer. "So?"

Luckily, Kaiba was too occupied processing this revelation to notice the snide tone. "And you're Yugi Mouto and Ryou Bakura: my classmates." Yugi and Ryou nodded. "How, how did this happen?" Kaiba asked weakly, sitting down in his desk chair.

"It's the magic, Seto," Mokuba said before Atem could launch on a speech about the Millennium items, Ancient Egypt, and quirky coincidences. Mokuba addressed the group, looking very much like a younger version of his brother. "You need starting money?" He inquired, sounding years older than a middle school kid.

"Yes. They appeared for no reason a few days ago," Yugi sad. "Grandpa wants Atem to get through a year of school, so he can graduate."

Mokuba grabbed the laptop from Kaiba's slacked hands. "Starting money, false IDs, and records, huh?" He smirked. "I think I can do that."

Mokuba's easy acceptance seemed to snap Kaiba out of his daze. "You can't just give away false information, Mokuba! Especially to these people," he flipped a hand in Yugi's general direction.

Suddenly Mokuba looked more his age as a sullen look graced his features. "But Grandpa is right, Seto." Kaiba scowled at the familial word used for Mr. Mouto. "Education is important. And one year won't be too hard to live under aliases. And it doesn't cost that much."

"Do you want to do the hand shaking with those types of businessmen, Mokuba?" Kaiba asked. Mokuba shook his head and continued to fix his brother with a pleading stare. "Fine," he snapped, then addressed the group. "I take it you have aliases created for your false birth certificates?" he spoke in a tone that implied they had better have prepared false identities. A silence filled the room, and Kaiba's glare deepened.

Ryou spoke quietly, "I had an idea."

Kaiba scrawled out Ryou's idea onto a plain white piece of printer paper. He glanced at Ryou's notes every so often to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "So, Yami Mouto is Yugi's older brother. He stayed with the deceased Mr. Mouto while he was away for business. Homeschooled, but he had to return for his final year, after their father's death. He scored a 500 on the entrance exam." Kaiba smirked as he announced Atem's grade to be one of the lowest accepted entrance exam scores.

"Why so low?" Yugi asked Ryou, also aware of the very low score.

Ryou shifted. "I did that for both of them. In case they're confused by the classes. It won't seem too out of place."

Yugi nodded. Even Atem, who had been seething at Kaiba's satisfied expression, was impressed by Ryou's preparedness.

"And Yami Bakura, we have a couple options for." Kaiba tapped his pen against Ryou's list. "Mr. Solomon Mouto and Mrs. Mouto are willing to claim Atem as their own, but your father is still living, and is unaware of the spirits." Kaiba spoke to Ryou, reading Ryou's thoughts to the group as a collective, changing the pronouns for clarity. He sneered at the word spirit. "A distant family member of the Bakuras', but that could have backlash if Mr. Bakura found out..."

Suddenly Kaiba laughed out loud as he read silently ahead. "A cousin of the Moutos'!" He smirked, and continued to read Ryou's indexed writing. "This would require cosmetic changes—perhaps dying hair black and cutting it short. Address is at the Mouto's."

Kaiba read ahead again, this time answering Ryou's questions without bothering to relay the questions to the group. "No, the school would not check on Yami Bakura's listed home address unless they had a reason. And there would be sufficient warning. You guys walk part way to school every day. Why would that be an issue? How am I to know if he would be willing to cut and dye his hair?"

Kaiba fell silent, waiting for Yami Bakura's response. "Well?" Atem finally asked.

Yami Bakura replied, "Whatever. I don't care." He still wore that queer expression. Really, Yami Bakura mused, he didn't care what his body looked like. At the moment, all he cared about was the sizzling pain along the cut he continued to scratch under his shirt sleeve.

"I'll have it done within the next two days, so you can start school on time." Kaiba said. He placed the plain white paper on top of stack of papers closest to his laptop.

Yugi smiled. "Thank you Kaiba. We really do appreciate this."

"Yes Kaiba, I am grateful to you," Atem added.

Kaiba scoffed. "You should thank your friend for being so prepared." He flicked his eyes in Ryou's direction.

Ryou blushed. "That's okay. It was nothing, really."

Kaiba looked like he was about to say something about Ryou's protests, but Mokuba broke in. "You better thank me too. He wouldn't've helped if it weren't for me!" Mokuba thrust his thumb into his chest.

Kaiba shoved his knuckles into Mokuba's hair. "Lucky I love you, little brother." He smiled softly down at Mokuba.

…

A/N:

I mentioned high school entrance exam scores. I'm not quite sure how this situation would work: a home schooled kid being placed in a school. Nor, am I aware of the scoring rubric, so I apologize if the score of 500 is completely off. I tried researching it, but I couldn't find anything. All I know about entrance exams is that they are required at high school and college levels, and students find out their admissions via a communal message board, with each student receiving a number and if that number is posted, they were accepted. Also, I only know this through years of being a manga and anime fan, so if anyone has more knowledge on entrance exams, feel free to elaborate. ^_^

Laptops existed in 1998. My cousin, up until 2007, had a laptop from 2001 with one of the first versions on Windows XP and that thing was a rock: bulky and durable even through her abuse, and just amazing. I just googled laptops from 1998. Hahaha. Check that out!

Name confusion ends at the beginning of next chapter. The spirits will be called Yami and Bakura, because I'm an old unteachable dog.


	5. The Week Before School

A/N: I am so sorry for the late update! Life has been crazy. I have to have surgery (supposedly the mildest, most minute type of invasive surgery, but still) on Thursday, so I really wanted to get this chapter up before hand. I don't know what I will be like afterwards and my mother refuses to let me bring in my computer to write this, so…

I apologize for any spelling errors/grammatical errors. I blame the pain, the pain drugs, and a lack of sleep, but, like I said, I wanted this up before surgery. Now, off to fix a really bad error in chapter four (that I don't think anybody noticed). Enjoy chapter five!

Chapter 5: The Week Before School

…

In the next few days as Kaiba's businessmen prepared the necessary information for Atem and Yami Bakura to integrate with society, Yugi and Ryou set out to pick up a couple sets of uniforms and textbooks for the two. At Ryou's suggestion, the group of four detoured to the library after the school store to add some books on basic (and, Ryou reasoned, so common place, he or Yugi might forget to mention) information about society. Ryou knew Yami Bakura, at least, could speak and write fluent Japanese from his time in the Millennium Ring. This proved true with Atem also, because, even though he wasn't connected with Yugi for more than a year, he had picked up Japanese from the first time the Puzzle pieces heard Solomon Mouto's and Professor Hawkins' voices.

After hearing about Yugi's partner nearly blowing up the kitchen in his process of making toast, Ryou and Yugi, amidst peals of laughter, decided an introductory crash course would be essential. "We should probably refer to you guys by your aliases, so you don't forget at school," Yugi offered on their trip back from the library. Ryou secretly cheered that Yugi had brought up that fact. He did not want to deal with Yami Bakura's resentment at being referred to as a Mouto. He had to admit, though, the spirit had been almost passive. He did not lash out on Ryou or, not including the shattered mirror, the apartment this time around.

"Yami Mouto and Bakura Mouto," Ryou stated. Voice, no Ryou corrected himself, Bakura shuffled his feet, looking displeased, but not violent. Atem, er, Yami, beamed at his own name—not that it had changed drastically in any unpleasant way.

"Hello, my name is Ryou Bakura. And you are?" Ryou offered a hand to the spirit—no Bakura, and Bakura shook it.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Bakura Mouto," he said gruffly. Ryou grinned. His tone was informal, almost impolite, but he chalked that up to Bakura's personality. After spending seven years with Ryou, Bakura could be polite and did have a grasp on modern society. He had seen Bakura imitate him to his friends numerous times from his soul room in Battle City, then later in Millennium World.

Yugi held out his own hand to Yami. "Yugi Mouto. It is a pleasure to meet you." Yami took his hand; bringing Yugi's proffered hand to his lips, then kissed the back of his hand. Yugi recoiled.

Yami spoke in a deep voice, not aware of his transgressions, "My name is Yami Mouto, charmed." He blinked rapidly at Yugi.

"What-what are you doing?" Yugi spluttered. Ryou couldn't help it and started to laugh at poor Yami's confused expression. Even Bakura smirked at the Pharaoh's distress.

"That's how it was done in that movie!" Yami justified, crossing his hands haughtily.

"What movie?" Ryou gasped out between chuckles.

Realization dawned on Yugi. "It must have been that foreign romance Tea made him watch last night."

"Why?"

Yugi just shook his head and collected himself, before explaining how most people greeted others, especially outside of clichéd 1930s romances. Yes, Yugi decided, the two did need a crash course introduction to modern Japan.

…

A week later, on the day before the new school year, Yugi's group of friends met one last time for the informal instruction-for-modern-Japan classes. Bakura trudged slightly behind Ryou, actively making a conscious effort to stay behind the laggard boy, as Ryou plodded along as if the short walk exhausted him.

Ryou waved to the small group as they approached, and Bakura quirked an eyebrow as he saw a bead a sweat trickle down Ryou's face even as Bakura stared sullenly downwards, eyes glaring pathways along the concrete sidewalk. Bakura twirled a lock of his momentarily still white and medium length hair as their present location reminded him of why exactly his arm stung underneath one of his new long sleeved tee shirts. He yanked at his hair, unintentionally ripping out a few strands. He hastily shoved them in his jeans pocket and crossed his arms, bracing himself.

"What's on the schedule today?" Yami asked, making Bakura bristle against the obnoxious grating of the former Pharaoh's pleasing teacher voice. He repositioned his arms; uncrossing and recrossing them, letting the newest cuts rub against the fabric of his shirt.

As they were presently huddled underneath an awning of the local hair stylist, Bakura assumed it was perfectly easy to deduce what their plans for the first part of today were. He bit back a sigh that threatened to make his opinion on their location apparent. "Well," he said in a gruff voice which hid the lump in his throat, "we're all here."

Bakura stomped through the entrance, ignoring the receptionist's greetings and cheery "Good morning!" They all better damn well be here; he didn't want nor need an audience to witness this. Yugi, Ryou, and Yami were more than enough—though why Yami's or Yugi's presences were required, Bakura did not know. He slouched into a fake leather chair, arms still crossed against the rock forming in his gut at the imminent altercation of his hair. He reminded himself with a firm tightening of his arms that he did not have any attachment to his white hair.

Forty-five minutes later—the benefits and perks of being one of the first appointments—Bakura walked out the same door he had marched into, now sporting freshly dyed shoulder-length black hair. He bowed his head, relaxing slightly as his hair still fell forward, covering the majority of his face, and certainly covering the sullenness in his eyes. He had only spoken once during it, to verbalize his confirmation with the new hair style, a habit he formed during the crash course set up by Ryou and Yugi.

His insides twisted into lead; he still had to endure that too. He was almost grateful at the promise of school the following day. These classes on proper etiquette for him and Yami bordered on pandering and condescending, and forced him to swallow back bile as Ryou and Yugi instructed them on anything and everything from appliances to electronics, threatening to snap Bakura's thinly masked self control. Nothing a couple slices with his glass shard couldn't ease. He had taken to carrying the glass shard in his pants pocket, but it wasn't always so easy to slip off somewhere—especially on days like today, where they convened in Yugi's house.

Yugi set up extra chairs, stolen from the kitchen table, in front of a desktop computer in the corner of the living room, gesturing for the four to have a seat. Bakura, positioning his chair a few spaces behind the rest, sat. Yugi booted up the computer while addressing the group, especially Bakura and Yami. "I think you both know this is a computer. We don't use them that often for school, but they are available."

Ryou spoke to the floor, chiming in, "They're becoming more important though. Universities expect you to know something about them. Typing, word processors, the world wide web, for example." He listed the examples while ticking them of his fingers, still staring at the floor, rather than meet Bakura's or Yami's eyes—though Bakura stared at his own lap, inching his hand up the sleeve of his shirt.

Bakura knew a bit about computers, mostly because Ryou had a fairly top of the line model. He had sent Ryou's father an email once, when he borrowed Ryou's body for a particularly long time, only to keep the archeologist's suspicions at bay so he would stay in Egypt. He let Yugi's and Ryou's split lecture wash over him. As the two went through very basic functions of the computer and the internet, he lost himself in scratching at the most recent cut on his arm underneath his sleeve.

He found himself blinking back to reality, quickly removing his hand from his shirt sleeve, to Yugi's wide eyes gazing into his a few millimeters from his. He resisted to the urge to jump back, probably knocking over his chair in the process or throttling the little idiot, choosing just to snarl out a question-like verbiage. "Are you alright?" Yugi asked.

"Fine," Bakura said shortly. He waved a hand in the general direction of the computer, and, much to his relief, everyone returned their gazes to the desktop computer (which beeped in inconsistent lengths as it connected to the internet), "Moving on?"

Yugi pointed at the small symbol on the lower right of the computer that meant the computer was connected to the internet. "Now, we can't stay on too long or Grandpa will be annoyed, but…" Bakura continued to zone out the majority of Yugi's lecture as Yugi continued to speak, just like the majority of 'lessons'. Bakura choked down the bitterness pooling in the back of his throat as Yugi pointed out things he knew from inhabiting the Millennium Ring that used to be present on Ryou's neck at all times.

…

Bakura sat on his bed in what counted as his room, he supposed. He listened to the toilet next to Ryou's room flush, once, then again. He rolled up his left shirt sleeve, without thinking about why he was rolling up his sleeve. He gazed down at the cuts on his arm, all seven of them. Everything from Ryou's constant illness, to the patronizing grooming classes, to shopping for school clothes made him want to reach for something sharp. In fact, at the school store, behind the rows of text books and uniforms, Bakura had slipped off to peruse the shelves littered with overpriced personal care items, cold medications to lead pencils to shampoo and cream rinse that could be purchased for a better price at the convenience store a few blocks away.

Alone in the personal care aisle no one ever looked at; Bakura stashed a disposable razor in his jeans pocket, smirking as his fingers grazed the glass shard in the process. Now, days later, he unearthed the razor from his dresser, whilst the glass shard nipped slightly at his skin through his pants.

Bakura ripped off the plastic safety piece. The three blades glittered as they caught on the light from the lamp. With his thumb and forefinger, Bakura detached the head from the razor. He studied the razor head, wondering how he would remove the blades from the plastic, when a knock on the door tore his attention away from the razor.

Ryou entered before Bakura could hide the razor and pull down his sleeve. He cursed, pulling at the sleeve roughly. He felt one of the razor blades, still nestled in the plastic covering, cut into his thumb. He watched, filled with horror and grim satisfaction as the accidental cut bled more than any of his self inflicted cuts had. Blood welled up on the side of his thumb, and ran down his hands in rivulets. His heart pounded in tune to the bleeding wound, and the blood matched the beat of his pulse.

"Bakura?" Ryou, Bakura noticed was very pale. His eyes watered and bright red dots stood out in contrast to the skin around his eyes. He had to stop and place a balancing hand on the nightstand by Bakura's bed. Bakura used this opportunity to tuck his bleeding thumb into the black shirt sleeve. At least he had worn his only black shirt today.

"What's wrong with you," Bakura growled, annoyed at himself for being annoyed at Ryou over being ill. Whatever was going on with his host, Bakura did not like it, and the worry turned outward into verbal lashings to Ryou.

Ryou smiled. "I'm fine."

"The hell you're not. Even Kaiba noticed something was off." At that statement, Ryou's dazed look was replaced with a quiet desperation.

"What do you mean?" Ryou blinked away the black spots that always danced in the corner of his vision, especially lately. He wanted to appear alert, able to have this conversation. After the meeting with Kaiba, when the CEO had prevented Ryou from passing out (not that Ryou had mentioned this to Bakura), Bakura seemed almost concerned.

"Nothing. What did you want?" Bakura's earlier anger at being walked in on in a compromising situation bubbled over. "Didn't I tell you not to enter without knocking? Huh brat?"

Ryou visibly shook, this time from fear. "Um. Kaiba called. I'm sorry I bothered you, s-"

Before Ryou could finish with the mantra Bakura made him say last time around, Bakura cut him off. The bleeding, stinging cut on his thumb prevented him from feeling anything about this interaction. "Never mind that. What did Kaiba have to say?"

"He said the paperwork was ready to go. And he wants us to pick it up later today." That made sense. School resumed for Yugi and Ryou tomorrow, and Yugi's parents would finish enrolling Bakura and Yami after they received the false birth certificates and paperwork.

"Okay," Bakura said as a dismissal. Ryou left, Bakura figured, to finish getting dressed. Bakura did not understand why Ryou had to take his shirt off to use the toilet, but it didn't seem important enough to dwell on. He entered the toilet near the kitchen to wash the drying blood off his thumb, and to throw on one of his thicker sweaters to staunch any latent blood flow.

As he returned to his room, Bakura noticed the razor head he had tossed on his nightstand. He turned the lock shut on the door, and he leaned against the door frame. He twisted the razor head in his hands. He was not particularly upset or angry, especially after accidentally cutting his thumb; he couldn't justify cutting, but he felt, low, he supposed. Unproductive, maybe. He didn't really feel like hurting himself, but he thought removing the blades, now, rather than when he was desperate later, was a smart plan.

Feeling validated with his idea, Bakura, in perfect control, ripped and gnashed at the plastic covering with his teeth until three, slightly dented razor blades came loose. The blades fell to the floor by his lap, and Bakura reached over to grab one. Still not needing to hurt himself, Bakura stared at the paper thin metal blade. He didn't trust this little thing to cut very well. Then again, one side was sharp, and glinted in the false light in his room. He reasoned, he should try a practice cut, so as to not cause himself any lasting damage.

He pressed the blade into the smooth skin right above his left knee. It stung as he felt the skin part under the razor side. He hadn't dragged the blade, so this intricate cutting into his skin almost did not count. Bakura watched as beads of blood trickled to the surface of his skin. He didn't think of the meeting with Kaiba last week or the start of his first and final year at a public school tomorrow. Bakura just watched the small tracks of blood snake down, curling down his exposed upper thigh.

A/N:

In the manga, Ryou Bakura never called Yami Bakura anything but "koe", which translates to voice (from the scanlations online since my English YGO mangas are buried in my closet).

The only knowledge I have of Japanese school stores is from a couple mangas. I based it on my university/college school stores. I' probably totally off, but I hope you can ignore any glaring errors for the sake of the plot.

Anyone else old enough to remember dial up? Ye gods. Shudders. I you aren't old enough to remember the ancient, archaic thing that was dial up, it ran through your phone line (you know landlines?), so you couldn't use the telephone (before cell phones?). Hahaha. Which is why Solomon would get angry,


	6. First Day

A/N: Surgery went fine. I'm on a six week bed rest, which I'm totally fine with the opportunity to write and finish the many books and fanfiction I'm currently reading—on doctor's orders, of course! Though, with everyone spoiling me and feeling bad for me, it's hard to get into Bakura's perspective.

Today is Ryou Bakura's birthday if you didn't know. September 2, 1998 is a very eventful day for our characters. Since we're only in April, I guess you all will have to wait and see what happens 15ish chapters from now. ^_^

Chapter 6: First Day

…

The next morning found Bakura gazing at himself in the cracked mirror in the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the shattered, spider web design of the mirror. Bakura ran a hand through his newly dyed black hair, marveling at the feel of his hair ending right at the tip of the shoulders. "That horrid gym teacher won't bother you about the length," Ryou had said with a wince. Bakura recalled that incident; he felt a smirk tugging at his lips at the thought of how he could torture the teacher. Then he remembered the Pharaoh would also be starting today with him, and the smirk vanished. Without his shadow magic, he wouldn't have any advantage over the gym teacher. Bakura scratched at his arm underneath his sleeve.

He really needed to find a place for the razor. Thoughts shifting, he glanced at the top dresser drawer, the current location of the busted razor and two blades, and contemplated. He threw on the familiar school uniform, not taking the time to keep the skirt crease free, like Ryou did. Idiot.

A knock on his door. Bakura whirled around, pointedly looking in any direction but the dresser. Ryou opened the door and stepped in the room. He made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound Bakura equated to a cross between a gag and a sneer. "You're uniform..." he trailed off.

Bakura ignored him, brushing past Ryou to the kitchen. A plate was set up on the table: a very protein focused breakfast spread, complete with omelet, fish strips, and leftover stir fry chicken take out. "You're not eating?" he asked as he sat down in front of the plate, noticing the lack of a second table setting.

"I already ate." Bakura rewarded Ryou with a grunt and ate the meal alone.

Ryou stared at the wall. As Bakura ate, Ryou seemed to recite a rehearsed list of his, still keeping his eyes level to the wall. "We should all be in the same class. Yugi, Yami, me ,you, Joey, Tea, Tristan. I'm not sure how he managed that, but it will be easier to help with your assignments." Ryou smoothed out a wrinkle Bakura swore didn't exist, switching topics slightly. His voice changed to a higher—forced—pitch. "Oh! We have math, language and culture, um, English. And there's a new elective class being offered. Kaiba signed all us up for it..."

Bakura mindlessly chewed a piece of omelet and a bite of fish together. He wondered how much the Pharaoh would act up, or at least annoy him. His arm itched underneath his uniform shirt and jacket. He cursed himself for being so weak, so pathetic. He had been the thief king; he most certainly could stand up to him; hell, he held his own just fine in Millennium World. Bakura wondered if he should risk bringing a razor blade with him. He hadn't actually used one, aside from pressing the blade into his skin until it bled. That didn't count.

Ryou stopped chattering; Bakura noticed the silence. He murmured a response that hopefully fit what Ryou was blathering about. "...fascinating, really. But I hope it won't be too difficult for you and Yami. Ryou finished the sentence with an upwards draw, like an over excited puppy. He sneered around a mouthful of tomato and egg, but Ryou didn't notice.

…

School, Bakura found was as it had been when he borrowed Ryou's body: the classes dull and trivial, interspersed with monotonous breaks, all cycling in endless tedium, day on day. The elective class Ryou had been chirping on about over breakfast turned out to be psychology, which Bakura didn't mind as it was the second to last class before lunch. Over the past seven years, in and out of schools acting as Ryou Bakura, Bakura found he actually gleaned some of the taught information and had few problems keeping up in math and languages courses. It greatly amused him to watch the Pharaoh's expression shift from slightly pinched worry to outright panic, wide eyed deer-in-the headlights, over the course of a single class period.

After morning classes, Bakura lagged behind Yugi and his group of friends, simply following Ryou out of habit as they made their way to the courtyard for lunch.

Bakura nearly jumped out of skin when a plastic bento was thrust into his hands. Ryou just smiled at him, also holding a bento. "Here, I made you a lunch." Bakura raised his eyebrows in response, settling on the grass a few feet away from the rest of the group. He dug into the contents of his lunch, ignoring the others' conversation and general pleasantries. He ate without thought, sinply eating the traditional Japanese style food Ryou had prepared, until the silence made him look up.

He glanced, first, at the center of the lack of noise—Yugi and company, then to where they were looking, identical faces of confusion mingled with horror. Bakura smirked, and then took in the cause of disturbance at the school gate.

Marik, tanned skin a few shades paler than normal and a disheveled appearance, messy bed head hair and ghastly pallor, climbed up the gate that remained locked during school hours. Bakura chuckled as Yugi and Ryou ran over to the gathering conglomerate of teachers who loudly threatened to call the police on Marik.

"It's not funny, Bakura," Tea admonished, to which Bakura shrugged, unconcerned about the girl's opinion. "He could get into a lot of trouble." Bakura tossed Tea a glare, mostly to shut her up than in retaliation to her speech.

"Leave her alone," Tristan said to Bakura's glare. Bakura deepened his glare, before turning away from the insignificant lackeys, choosing to watch Marik make a fool of himself. Bakura noted his former host and Yugi try to pacify the teachers. Both boys used exaggerating hand gestures and pulled innocent expressions as they talked the teachers down from calling reinforcements.

He could make out a few words, mostly about Marik being distant family and there was an emergency and poor communication. Bakura smirked at Marik stuck halfway up the school gate as the negotiations took place, looking awkwardly out of place.

When the congregation of teachers and onlookers dispersed, Joey, Tristan, and Tea stood to join Yugi, Ryou, and Marik. Bakura followed.

…

"When did you call Marik, Ryou?" asked Yugi as they walked in a group from the school, effectively cutting their school day in half.

"Last night." Ryou tapped a finger against his lips. "I didn't think you could get here so quickly,' he said, glancing over at Marik as he spoke.

Marik grinned. "It was almost noon when you called over there," he shrugged. "And Ishizu has connections with the government, so…"

They walked a few paces before Marik spoke again, his voice tinged with a mix of dark emotion, "I wanted to make sure my spirit wasn't wandering Japan without me."

Ryou's eyes softened. "I don't think that will happen," he said in a way Bakura had a feeling he had elaborated this point to death, "the darkness in you was inherently created by you, not the Millennium items, while our spirits were attached to their items."

Marik scratched at his head, looking defeated with slumped eye facing the ground. Tea patted the Egyptian on the back tentatively. "Logically, I get that, but…"

"You're worried. It's understandable," Yugi finished and added his own words of encouragement.

Yami nodded. "It's commendable, you're actions after Battle City. You have changed for the better." The fact that you came—"

Before Yami could finish (his manipulative hero speech in Bakura's opinion), Joey and Tristan each lugged an arm around Marik in a necessary-but-still-masculine one arm hug. "Don't worry," Joey proclaimed.

"Yeah, it's cool. We know you've changed," Tristan said. Both boys immediately released Marik and the trio looked significantly more relaxed in their traditional walking gaits.

Bakura stared ahead, ambivalent. He acknowledged the conversation around him, but chose not to participate, going as far to deftly look away when Marik sent him pointed looks. In that passive way that his constantly stinging arm allowed him, he shoved aside the anger and bitterness regarding Battle City and Marik's subsequent shifting loyalties. He allowed himself to be lead to whatever destination the group chose.

…

After a few hours at the Mouto residence, thoroughly regretting his decision to tag along, Bakura returned to the apartment with Ryou, who chirped annoyingly, in the lead, about what the group had tentatively decided to do about Marik. Marik, after years of tomb keeping, then five years of scattered life as a gang-like boss, desired to integrate with society. Ryou's chatter unsettled Bakura, burrowing deep under his skin, an irksome thing humming in his veins.

Bakura slipped off his shoes before stepping up into the kitchen, for once, too tired to deal with the lecture Ryou would give him, too tired to hide behind his anger. Afraid his eyes betrayed his odd mood, Bakura slunk past Ryou, hair matted over his eyes, head down, to his room, where he hid behind the closed door.

Something foreign, something he could not place, rose in his gut, coiling upwards into his chest. This thing, this feeling, split him apart from inside-out. He let his muscles relax, slumping to the bed. He reached into his uniform pants pocket for the glass shard, fingers, out of habit, held the shard by thumb and forefinger, in a position that best suited a slicing motion. Instantly the sensation in his chest subsided as he stared up at the shard.

He set the shard on the covers of the bed, not really needing to use the object, but comforted by the sight. He tugged off his uniform, letting the three garments fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. He paused in his quest to put on a fresh shirt and pants, reveling in the cuts and scars on his arm. Already, only a few weeks in, and his non dominant arm sported a multitude of little white scars and more recent scratch-like cuts.

Bakura stroked the cuts and scars with a fingertip, the skin mostly smooth. The cuts formed small ridges and peaks that marred his arm, which would eventually heal and flatten to white track marks criss-crossing in a pale design. Staring, memorized at the damage on his arm, Bakura failed to notice the knock on his door, until the knob turned with a metallic click, and Ryou entered, uttering a soft, "Bakura?"

The reaction was instantaneous: Bakura threw a long sleeved top over his head, immediately sliding his arms into the sleeves, whilst facing away from Ryou, preventing the other boy from seeing the most recent cut on his knee. He screamed, barely masking the tremor in his voice, "The fuck!?"

He tugged his legs through a new set of pants, as Ryou stammered out an apology and swiveled around to face out into the hallway, until Bakura finally said, "What do you want?"

When Ryou turned to face Bakura, the former tomb robber had a scowl planted on his face, arms crossed and leaned against the far wall. "I just got off the phone with Yugi." His smile caused the coiling in Bakura's gut to reawaken and unfurl. "He got a hold of Kaiba…"

As Ryou spoke, his relief and good cheer bouncing against the growing agitation in Bakura's stomach, Bakura nodded, muttering neutral responses, until, satisfied at last, Ryou left him to his own devices. His eyes burned and his chest felt tight like an over-extended rubber band. He grabbed the glass shard before his chest collapsed under this strange pressure, and the emotions bubbled out at abandon.

He cut into the flesh of his arm, the biting sting overriding Ryou's words that taunted him.

"Kaiba agreed to help Marik out too, since he only needs real identification papers," Ryou said.

Slice.

"He'll live with Yugi and Yami, as a distant relative. So I guess he's your relative too." Ryou chuckled as Bakura suppressed a strangled sound, akin to a small animal dying.

Slice. Furrowed brows masked the burning at the edges of his eyes. The pain cut through his chest, and the pressure lessened.

"He should be able to start school in a couple days. Oh!" Ryou interrupted himself as he remembered another important tidbit. Bakura shrugged, letting Ryou's words flow past him, as he told himself it didn't affect him. "We might have to educate him too." Bakura literally bit into his tongue. Apparently former mob bosses didn't learn much about modern culture during hostile takeover missions. Bakura wondered why; he expressed that sarcastic sentiment to Ryou, who actually laughed softly at the jab.

Bakura's fingers hovered over his exposed forearm, the glass shard shook slightly at the strain put on it. Bakura paused, then set the shard down, satisfied with the two cuts. Blood trickled out in small amounts, and the tightness in his stomach dissipated. He inhaled, then exhaled. Flopping against his bed, Bakura breathed deeply, mind beautifully clear.

…

Ryou closed Bakura's door behind him and quietly made his way to the living room. He drew himself up into a ball, knees tucked to his chest and arms curled around his knees, in the comfortable armchair his father chose to sit in when he spent time in the apartment. He racked his brain, searching for the motive behind why he chose to share information, to communicate with Bakura.

The information was purely neutral; it would affect him as Marik would become part of their everyday lives: however, Bakura's expression, the crossing of his arms, the languid way he leaned against the wall, the never changing sneer, conveyed his lack of interest rather clearly. Ryou picked at his fingernails, ignoring the small grumble in his belly, as he curled up tighter.

He supposed he was lonely. He desired companionship, any companionship, so Bakura's dour, sarcastic presence in his life would make do. Still picking at his fingers, he stole a glance at his phone in the dining area just off the kitchen. He could call Joey or Yugi: he knew that logically. Another embarrassing growl from his stomach stopped his thoughts, and Ryou stood.

He shut the depressing thoughts out of his mind as he set out to prepare dinner for Bakura. At least the task would quiet his mind for a short while. As he thumbed through one of the few cookbooks he owned, Ryou fixed himself a cup of tea. The kettle heating in the background, Ryou prepped vegetables for the meal, the knife chopping against the cutting board drowned out any thoughts.

…

A/N:

Ryou's POV is so hard to write! At least it is for now. ^_^

I'm not sure how much I mentioned about Japanese schools before, but… I think you could read this chapter and later chapters without any extra knowledge, like watching the English dub, without being too confused, but I know it bothers me. So:

The Japanese school year runs from April to March (?) with three terms: April to about August, which is summer break (which can be a month or more depending on location because most schools in Japan do not have air conditioning), then September to mid December (for a break for the New Year), then January to sometime in late March.

Japanese students are sorted into a class room or homeroom, which, unlike American schools (that I'm familiar with), the students stay in that one room while the teachers move from room to room. There's about a ten minute break between classes. After school activities and duties (at the end of every day students are tasked to clean up as there is no janitor—it is the students' responsibility to clean up after themselves) are important. I don't think I focus on extracurriculars because, really? Would Bakura ever participate?

Up until the early 2000s Japanese students had to attend class every Saturday for a half day session.  
This is still practiced now in some schools, but it depends on the school: the school may choose to abolish this or students only have to attend every other Saturday. Since my fanfiction takes place in 1998, they will be attending half day Saturdays.

That horrid gym teacher is from season 0 or the early manga. He harassed Ryou about his hair length. Teachers bullying students can be a problem in Japanese schools, because of the culture. Students are taught to respect authority and never to question authority, so bullying teachers are given too much power. This could happen anywhere, but it was a problem in Japan as shown in season 0 and the manga (as an available example).

Ok, a disclaimer: my information could be wrong. This is only from my personal research. I've never been to Japan (would love to go!), so I could be wrong. Please don't flame me over it. Though do inform me if I am totally off.

I did check the time zones and how Ryou's phone call to Marik would match up. I have no idea what it is now, but I know it was correct when I wrote it back in June. :P


	7. Change of Heart

A/N: 2713 words before author notes; longer than normal. Partially because I feel slightly guilty groveling for reviews. I had over 100 views (which made me ridiculously happy by the way!) since I uploaded last chapter, but the lack of reviews… Insert sad face. I will never _not_ update because of a lack of reviews or demand reviews because I am writing this for myself too, but I want to know what you guys think. Not all chapters are set in stone. Please, please review? Love it/hate it: let me know.

Now enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 7: Change of Heart

…

After the disastrous first day, the school day fell into a cycler routine. One, which Yami was grateful for. He woke to Yugi's alarm, even from two doors down, at the same time five days out of the week. Clothes, breakfast, shoes: it became normalcy. He attended school, all the while pointedly ignoring the tomb robber, whom pointedly ignored him and Yugi's group of friends unless addressed. He hung around the backdrop of Yugi's friends, never quite feeling like he belonged. After a year of dueling by their side, it didn't feel right, especially after Marik's impromptu arrival. His partner deserved this time of peace; he didn't deserve the inclusion of his presence nor the thief's presence, so he tried to assimilate into Yugi's world as his cousin with little fuss.

As he slammed a hand against the alarm in his own room, which sounded a few minutes after Yugi's, Yami smiled at the thought of mostly content that he felt with his new chance at life, and finally left his bed to start the routine or the day. After school, the cycle continued with homework and an occasional visit with Yugi's friends, before dinner with his new family, not by blood but their acceptance of him made his chest swell in joy. Some time spent with his 'cousins', as the family bathed one after another, before finally sleeping in his room. Yes, for Yami, this shot at a mortal life was a blessing, and he was thankful to whatever gods allowed this.

…

At the Bakura's the adjustment was not nearly as cheerful. Their days fell into the same rhythm, preventing any major outbursts. Ryou pondered Bakura's passiveness, but chose not to question it aloud, lest the inquiry, for some reason, opened the metaphoric hatchet on the well of Bakura's anger and invoked the former ire he had witnessed during the duels a year ago against those Ryou considered friends. At the same time, Bakura felt like somewhat of a quasi caregiver to a terminal patient. He actively tried to ignore Ryou's antics or, hell, even his mere presence, but the boy's almost constant general poor health made Bakura feel, well, almost guilty.

He recalled the weakness and illness he usually shoved aside when he was simply a spirit attached to the Millennium Ring and possessed him, so he knew Ryou was frail, but, now living with the boy, he saw firsthand the mental weariness as it took a toll on Ryou's physical strength and sapped any of Bakura's mental stability. The pain from constantly relying on cutting himself bore proof of that.

It marked the cycle, a sick and twisted routine in its nature, of the Bakura household: Ryou stressed by the presence of Bakura ended up weaker as the illness ravaged his faculties and Bakura, guilt ridden and desperately trying to absolve himself of the foreign emotion forced himself to cast the blame on someone, anyone, other than him. The cycle continued: Bakura would cave after the pressures mounted too much, became too much, and finally collapsed against it, glass shard in hand, the stresses tricking down his arm. Then Bakura's anger; then Ryou's stress mounted.

Their lives continued in those first few school weeks, not ideal, not particularly happy, but routine. And Ryou and Bakura settled into that. One evening, right after Ryou cleared away the dinner dishes and set to wash the few dishes, he answered his cell phone to take a call from his father.

Bakura observed from the couch as he lazily flipped through channels on the television. Phone calls from Ryou's father were also part of their unhappy routine: they usually ended up badly. Just as it played out every time he called, Ryou ended p finishing the phone call with a polite, but surely noticeable anger in his parting. Bakura's ears perked when Ryou hung up the phone. The dishes in the sink crashed against one another as if Ryou was scrubbing at them harsher than normal.

Ryou's eyes blazed as he brushed through the living room, past Bakura on the couch, to where he always ended up after these phone calls, the bathroom for a long bath. Bakura raised his eyebrows; still channel surfing, perfectly content in allowing Ryou the luxury of deluding himself that a bath would relieve the stress caused by his absent and distant father. The tub began to fill with water, drowning out any noises from the bathroom.

…

Bakura resisted the urge to swing his legs like an impatient child as he waited on a bench designated for that entire purpose: for Ryou to emerge from the teachers' office. He felt the beginnings of that crawling sensation in his veins, right below his skin that demanded release, the sensation that made him want to reach for the shard from the broken mirror and let out everything he bottled up. Bakura settled for scratching at the back of his hand, the humming in his veins grew louder, causing his blood to boil and ricochet across his head in anger. He dragged a fingernail slowly, firmly across his hand. The slightly raised red scratch silenced everything.

Bakura leaned his head back against the wall in exasperation. He rolled his eyes in slow motion, then rolled them back. For all intents and purposes, the school day had been as monotonous and mind numbing as the last; Ryou had been alright—sick and overly quiet—but alright; hell, life was perfectly copasetic. He had no reason to feel so wound up—halted at the top of a hundreds of feet drop, anxiety coiled in his gut, wondering what persuaded him to get on this ride.

He exhaled deeply, but dragged it out so it came out near silent. He could just make out the conversation between Ryou and their homeroom teacher through the thin walls as he leaned his head. It didn't sound particularly pleasant, he thought with a grimace. Ryou spluttered similar-sounding varied excuses about his negligent performances whilst their teacher scolded him in a tone, a concerned plaintive, lament that resonated so strongly in a murmur through the thin wall that Bakura straightened his sleeves over the newest inflamed cuts and older scars.

As he listened thoroughly to the back and forth displeasures from the teacher and Ryou's noncommittal promises to work harder, he neglected to notice when Tea plopped down next to him on the bench. The hand placed on his shoulder and her greeting alerted him to another presence.

He jerked back as Tea's eyes widened, the lingering worry she had expressed still slipped past her surprise. "Yes?" Bakura asked, lowly, sarcasm filtering through the blunt reply.

"I just finished cleaning the class room, and saw you sitting here," Tea said. Bakura hid a scowl behind his shorter black hair. He had never been one to hide behind his hair, especially in ancient times when lice ran rampant and it was simply more convenient to keep his hair short or completely nonexistent. Even when he borrowed Ryou's body in the past, with the boy's long white hair, his normal stance had been head thrown back, long locks tossed at abandon to the wind, off his face. Regardless, since his return to the world as a mortal, he preferred the way his hair slid forward to mask whatever traitorous emotions that made it a habit to flit across his face. Tea brushed her hair back behind her ears, a stark contrast from Bakura who hid further and further behind the inky black locks. "Anyway," she said, "I wanted to see how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?" Bakura let his hair fall back, revealing his ugly expression. This time the sarcasm was conveyed loud and proud as he enunciated each syllable, dragging the words out slowly.

Tea leaned forward, hands clasped over her crossed legs. "Yes, I want to touch base, you know? See how things are going since…then," Tea started off strong, unperturbed by Bakura's reluctance, and trailed off, unable to explain Bakura's or Yami's existence as humans.

Bakura spat, "Well, I'm fine, yeah?" He crossed his arms behind his head carefully so to make sure the sleeves would not slip. He turned away to signal the end of Tea's inquiry.

Tea, meanwhile, did not verbally or physically express her dissatisfaction in Bakura's answers. Instead, she pointed, jerking her thumb behind her head at the wall, and asked, "What's going on?"

Bakura replied with a shrug, letting Ryou's appearance answer her question. Tea faced Ryou, who bowed to his teacher out of respect, and demurely said, "Thank you for letting me know, sir." The door to the teachers' office slid shut, and Ryou stood next to Tea, a questioning look twisted his face. "Hello Tea," he murmured, then addressed Bakura. "Thanks for waiting." Bakura did not acknowledge Ryou's gratitude, choosing to let Tea and Ryou to converse as he tagged silently behind the two as they exited the building and finally broke apart to go their separate ways, then Bakura walked behind Ryou.

…

In the Bakura residence, the first apartment on the eighth floor, Bakura sat cross legged on his bed, holding the remains of the disposable razor and the three sharp blades, while Ryou did something in the kitchen before occupying the toilet by his room. He glanced at the paper thin sharp objects. Aside from pressing one into his knee a few days prior, he hadn't used the blades; the glass shard from the mirror suited him just fine for the moment. Saving the razors for, well, a desperate time seemed like the best plan.

He still needed someplace to hide them besides his dresser drawer. He contemplated this as he threw on his uniform and rushed through his daily routine, as per usual. When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, Ryou was waiting with breakfast and his bento lunch, which he responded with a cross between a grunt and a "Thanks."

Ryou nodded, rubbing at his eyes as he gathered last minute school items. In the process of neatly laying a stack of yesterday's homework into his folder, a small scrap of paper fell to the floor.

"What's that?" Bakura asked round a bite of rice.

Ryou leaned against the wall, holding onto it with a hand. "Hmm?" His eyes looked over at Bakura, unfocused as if the task of holding up a conversation was too exhausting.

Bakura swallowed to shove the strange revelation of concern back down then asked again. Even to him, his former host looked ill as he struggled to remain upright, even as he let Ryou kneel down shakily, then force himself up off the ground, as if gravity had multiplied in seconds. Ryou grasped the wall with both hands, the piece of paper clutched in-between his fingers, as he pulled himself upright.

"It's the Change of Heart card," Ryou said softly. Bakura's eyes widened; he remembered: Duelist Kingdom, the shadow realm twisted illusion duel, Ryou's first betrayal. "Here Bakura, you can have it," Ryou said as he handed him the card. Like the other older cards he owned, Ryou had the Change of Heart tucked into a card protector with only an opening on the top (which Bakura remembered Ryou paid a large sum of pocket money on the extra reinforced card holders rather than purchasing bulk flimsy newer ones).

Bakura shrugged, crumpling the card into his uniform pocket and resumed eating.

…

Bakura scowled as he dragged a broom across the classroom floor during an afternoon cleaning session with Marik. Marik glanced up from the table he had been dusting with a rag, observing Bakura's dour expression. "Are you trying to cleanse the floor with your eyes?"

"I don't like sweeping," Bakura said akin to a toddler expressing his dislike of an exotic food.

Marik held out a hand with the rag: a symbol of generosity bordering on martyrdom. "Switch me."

"Eh?"Bakura paused in his pushing dirt around the floor in aimless patterns to focus on Marik speaking.

"If you don't like sweeping, you could do the dusting," Marik offered.

Bakura sneered and resumed dragging the broom across the floor. He curled his lips at the unpleasant task, equally annoyed at the prospect of being partnered with Marik. Then again, odds were against him with the high number of prospective partners in their class room thanks to a certain millionaire's money-exchanging favors. Better Marik than Yugi, he supposed.

Marik bent over a table and rubbed extra furiously at a non-existent stain. "Well, you don't have to be so rude about it."

Bakura narrowed his eyes at the Egyptian boy who had been intricate to his plans in Battle City, the boy who had switched loyalties right at the end, the boy who quickly assimilated into Yugi's circle of friends with one weak apology. Bakura retracted his earlier thought. Yugi would've been a more compliant partner. He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable, "Fuck. Off."

Marik bristled, before reacting by placing a hand on his hip, stepping forward to gaze into Bakura's eyes. Bakura deepened his glare to distort any lingering emotions that did not convey rage. "Are you all right?" The question was laced with enough concern and empathy, Bakura was hard pressed not to scratch at his arm, lest Marik knew why he was scratching…

Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets, the abrasive action soothed the first layer of reaction to Marik's genuinely. When his fingers brushed against the card protector and the Change of Heart inside, something clicked.

"…I do understand, you know?" Marik talked nonsense that floated between Bakura's ears as incoherent buzzing as his thoughts ran, jumped, and bounced back in forth as an idea sprung to mind. "It isn't easy for me either. I mean, everyone is just too accepting of me, even after I tried to destroy my Pharaoh."

The paper card encased in the protector, clear on one side and emblazoned with the Duel Monsters logo—white against mostly black, would, could, be an ideal place to secure his tiny, paper-thin razor blades. He blinked at the thought just as Marik wrapped up his monologue concerning the last few weeks and his experiences at masquerading as yet another cousin of Yugi's with more good will from Seto Kaiba.

Bakura just nodded when Marik finally finished speaking, the conversation coming to a halt. He turned and continued fake sweeping, all the while looking forward to finishing so he could return home and test out his theory.

Marik dusted at another desk, satisfied that he had supposedly gotten through to the vicious tomb robber of ancient Egypt.

…

Ryou was just finishing off a plate of food when Bakura walked into the apartment, kicking his shoes off, letting the shoes fling against the genkan wall, before settling on the tiled floor, somewhere. Usually Ryou reproached him with a baleful expression, but today, Ryou just shook his head, before rinsing his plate off and adding it to the small pile in the sink.

"I'm going to take a bath," he said as a way of greeting. Bakura, too engrossed in his thoughts of blades and card protectors, simply nodded his acceptance and ignoring the plate Ryou had made him, slipped off to his room across the hall from Ryou's and the bathroom.

As water ran, filling the bath tub nosily, Bakura drowned in the ringing of thoughts in his head. He scooped up the three metal razor blades with one hand and uncrumpled the card protector against the top of the dresser with the other.

He sat on top of his unmade bed. With thumb and forefinger, he pressed against the sides of the card protector so the plastic edges split from the card leaving gaps in the front and back of the card. He coaxed the three blades into the plastic. Once the blades settled behind the card, invisible to inquisitive minds, he flipped the card upside down, the tiny slit at the top faced parallel to the ground, and smiled, pleased, at the effectiveness of the hiding spot.

He slipped the card back into his pocket without considering the meaning behind this action, and laid on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, until Ryou inquired about his uneaten dinner.

A/N:

Thanks to my mini essay on Japanese schools last chapter, I don't think I need to explain anything regarding that, but if you want more clarification I'll happily write another unintentional mini essay (pity my family that hears those on a regular basis.).

I had Ryou call his homeroom teacher sir, because teachers in Japan are generally referred to with the Japanese word for teacher: sensei, but it seems strange for Ryou to call the teacher: teacher in English.

Ryou Bakura's apartment number: I've seen it as 601 and 801. I don't know if that's a continuity error, but I went with 801 because that's the first number that popped in my mind when I thought about it. Correct me if wrong.

The razor blades hidden behind a trading card in the card protector does work, very effectively. I had to test it as I thought of it. If you want to see what the (no they weren't that expensive, but in comparison to other kinds...) card protectors look like, I photoshoped it into the cover picture (my god, the cover image makes sense now!), which can now be magnified so you can actually *see* the detail I angsted over.

Big thing coming next chapter, thought you guys should know. ^_^


	8. Discovery

A/N: I should not give myself unofficial deadlines. They don't usually work out well. I was hoping to have this chapter up yesterday, but that didn't happen. There was a local fair plus I preordered a book (it feels like Christmas getting a book in the mail ^_^). But the chapter is up now, so enjoy the big chapter ahead!

Oh, 100 views in 24 hours and two views: thanks so much guys!

Chapter 8: Discovery

In the two months, Bakura attended school, his psychology class had moved from theories that could mean something, but are never absolute, to how these theories worked with fucked up people—unnecessarily confusing bullshit. As Bakura referred to it. Last week, the teacher spent the classes lecturing on a disorder where people would hear voices in their heads. Part of him wanted to question the credibility of the scientists. After all, he had once been a disembodied voice talking to Ryou.

The complacent part of him took notes, while scratching at his arm, alternatively checking his pants pocket to ensure the card was still there. Bakura poised his pen at the top of the lined paper, acting the part of a studious senior. He prepared to write a jumble of information on autopilot, whilst zoning out.

"Today, we will be covering the serious topic of eating disorders." The teacher wrote the words "eating disorder" on the blackboard. Bakura stifled a yawn. He saw Joey concentrating and taking notes, along with Kaiba. Huh. Neither usually paid much attention to their school work. Hell, Kaiba attended school on his own schedule, usually missing his first two classes, and Joey maintained his perfect attendance for physical education.

With a suppressed sigh and illegible scribbles jotted down, Bakura let his attention drift. He thought about Ryou and his mystery illness. Often he heard him vomiting—on a fairly regular basis it seemed. He hoped it wasn't contagious; he did not want to deal with any human weaknesses, like diseases. That, Bakura thought with heavy disgust, was expected in his continually proven human body. He jammed a fingernail into his arm, under the shirt and jacket sleeves, slowly inching up his arm and gritted his teeth against the pain.

"-vomiting, laxative abuse, exercise, or fasting." Bakura dropped his hand from the scratch he had made. His ears pricked at the teacher's words. He blinked.

"Usually a bulimic individual will binge, eat, large quantities of food, before the purging behavior. This amount of food is more than what a non-bulimic individual consumes in the same period of time..." Bakura stopped listening. What the teacher said had nothing to do with Ryou; his illness was not that.

Bakura focused on the lecture once more, near the end of the lecture, when both Kaiba and Joey asked the teacher questions. He squinted at them as they spoke individually, curious about their sudden interest.

"What are the physical symptoms of anorexia, again?" Joey asked.

The teacher also seemed surprised by Joey's sudden enthusiasm as she said, "I hope this is for research, Joey?" Her tone suggested her suspicions regarding Joey showing any attention in the classroom.

"Of course, miss."

"And, perhaps, you could write this down, the first time?" She paused, "Symptoms of anorexia nervosa include." the teacher flexed her fingers in time with each symptom; her other hand gestured to the chalkboard where the symptom had initially been written, only now, were erased and covered with more recent instruction. "Thinness, emaciation, an anorectic needs to weigh 85% or less of their appropriate weight, lanugo, which is growth of downy fur-like hair on their body, blue fingernails and toenails due to poor circulation, loss of a menstrual cycle in females..."

Bakura watched Joey write down the teacher's reply in his notes. When the teacher finished answering his question, Kaiba raised his hand again. The hell? Bakura listened to Kaiba's question on the best treatment options for an individual with an eating disorder. Bakura tugged the corners of his mouth up at the teacher's eventual confusion. She first recommended therapy or inpatient treatment. After a back-and-forth question and answer session with Kaiba, she admitted to having little knowledge in the treatment for eating disorder patients.

Bakura still didn't care as the information resonated with him like, say, the mental illnesses she had lectured about in previous classes. He brushed a hand over his pocket as the lesson ended for a ten minute break. Hand still pressed to his pocket, above the card, Bakura started when he saw the looming figures of Joey and Kaiba at his desk. He stared at them in stony silence.

Joey spoke first. "Is Ryou eating?"

"What?" Bakura placed his elbows on his desk, resting his head in his palms, bored.

"Idiot," Kaiba said to Joey, then to Bakura, "What he means, we think Ryou might have relapsed."

"Huh?"

"Relapsed into his eating disorder," Kaiba explained. Bakura shot him a look meant to convey: I don't know or care what the fuck you're talking about. Kaiba slammed his hands on Bakura's desk. The action made his shirt sleeves slip past his wrists. He immediately dropped his arms on the desk, pulling his left sleeve down over his hand. "Do you pay attention in class at all?" Kaiba snarled.

"And that's why my question made more sense," Joey exclaimed.

Kaiba snorted, "Yes that explains the blank look you got."

"Shuttup Kaiba!" Joey yelled, glaring at Kaiba. "Why do you even care?" He pressed his index finger into Kaiba's chest.

Bakura snorted when Kaiba grabbed the blonds' wrist in the next second and wrenched him so hard, he nearly tripped over himself. "What is this? A contest?" He stalked off to the opposite side of the room, to his desk.

Joey's watched Kaiba walk away with an ugly sneer, before questioning Bakura again. "Does Ryou eat?"

"Yeah," Bakura said. Of course Ryou ate. He always said he did. Besides he had to be eating something to be puking his guts. He didn't care enough to voice these obvious facts to Joey.

…

Yami, Yugi, Tea, Joey, Tristan, Marik, Ryou, and, even, Bakura sat under a large oak tree in the side courtyard during the lunch period. The location and arrangement of the makeshift group fast became a routine. Yugi, Yami, and Marik munched on their homemade bentos, courtesy of Mrs. Mouto;

Tea unpacked her own bento. "Aren't you hungry, Ryou?" She gestured at Ryou's water bottle. Ryou blushed as everyone turned towards him.

He toyed with the bottle, passing it from hand to hand. At Joey and Yami's intense gazes, he dropped his gaze to his lap. "I'm fine. I forgot to grab my lunch, is all."

Bakura glanced over at Ryou. He quirked an eyebrow. He wasn't aware Ryou had made himself a lunch, though he supposed he must have since Ryou had made him a lunch. As an afterthought, he speared a piece of omelet with a chopstick.

"Have some of mine," Joey offered. He held out a mushy, malformed rice ball.

"That's right, "Yugi said, he also held out his bento. "With all of us, there's more than enough to share."

Ryou shook his head, eyes still downcast, "I don't want to impose."

"You need to eat," Yami said. Bakura glared at the Pharaoh, who he sent him an ugly look, over Ryou's head. Of all people to give advice and share opinions.

"I'll eat when I get home. It's no big deal."

When Yami gave Bakura a pointed look, Bakura said, "If it shuts you all up, I'll make sure he eats. For fuck's sake." He rolled his eyes at the grateful thanks Tea gave him.

"Well, now that that's resolved," Marik said, "You're mom makes delicious bentos."

"Ever the peace maker, are you?" Bakura queried between mouthfuls of vegetables.

"Don't be uncouth, thief." Bakura smirked as the Pharaoh responded accordingly.

"I'm just trying to make conversation, Bakura," Marik said.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "The term whipped, comes to mind," he drawled.

"Bakura, please?" Ryou asked. Bakura blinked, taking in the annoyance emanating from the group. He swallowed back the strange feeling that welled up in his chest.

"If this happy shit pleases you, then," he offered as words of parting as he slammed his bento shut, arranging it back in the carrying bag. He stalked off.

As Bakura walked into the school building, he took the card out of his pocket. He stared at the image of the Change of Heart card. At one point, he had appreciated the irony of his and Ryou's situation. He had thought Ryou appreciated it too. The card didn't really hold any meaning for them anymore, but it served its purpose anyway.

He flipped the card upside side down, placing a finger at the opening of the card protector. He felt the blades shift downwards, poking his finger. He chewed at his lip. Should he use them now? He had cut himself with the piece of broken mirror a few times over the past month, but the shard had dulled with use. He wondered how a razor blade would feel on his skin. It would probably bleed more.

He glanced at his uniform shirt, a white long sleeved polo. It probably wouldn't be a good thing to risk in school. He flipped the card right side up; the blades fell to the sealed bottom of the protector.

"What's with the card," Yami's voice brought Bakura back to reality.

"What the hell?" Bakura exclaimed, jumping back. He stuffed the card into his pocket. "Were you following me Pharaoh?"

Yami gave Bakura a queer look. "No, I was on my way to class. You were just standing there." Bakura's strange reaction prompted an honest answer.

"Whatever." Bakura turned away. His heart continued to pound erratically in his chest.

"Don't forget to make sure Bakura eats something, okay?" Yami called after him. Landlord eating. Right. Bakura ignored Yami, just as he ignored the niggling doubt that Joey and Kaiba's worry had been justified.

…

After school found Bakura preparing one of the few dishes he knew how to make: instant ramen. Ryou had just walked in the door. The niggling doubt he had felt earlier questioned Ryou's late arrival. Did Ryou arrive later than normal to avoid eating? He shook the thought out of his head. No problem; he had burnt the noodles in his first attempt anyway. Bakura added the packet of spices, just as Ryou slid off his shoes, and kneeled to place them in the rack.

"Sit down," he said as a way of greeting. "It's almost done."

Ryou watched Bakura pour the soup into two bowls. "I didn't think you would actually..." He trailed off, letting his school bag hit the floor. "Thank you Bakura, but I'm not—"

"Hungry?" Bakura snarled, an unexpected anger filling him, making his hands tremble as he set the steaming bowls on the kitchen table.

"I ate at Yugi's," Ryou offered. His voice came out thin and weak, as if expecting Bakura to respond with proof against his statement.

"Just eat it so the Pharaoh doesn't bitch me out." Bakura helped himself to a bowl, chewing noisily on the noodles. He missed the look of relief that shot through Ryou's eyes. Ryou sagged into the chair by the other bowl. He picked up his chopsticks and stared at the ramen, into the depths o the ball it seemed.

"It's not poisoned," Bakura announced. As if to prove his point, he swallowed a mass of noodles. Ryou took a small bite. Bakura smirked, pleased that he was right and that Joey and Kaiba were worried over nothing. He didn't allow himself to admit the release he felt as his own concern dissipated.

When Ryou finished, he placed his and Bakura's bowls in the sink. "Thanks for the ramen, Bakura. Since you cooked, I'll pick up," he offered.

Bakura shrugged. The kitchen was effectively trashed after his cooking attempts, so who was he to complain. He hauled himself to the television, propping his feet on the coffee table, an action which Ryou usually chided him against doing.

After a few minutes, when Ryou's reprimand did not come, Bakura glanced back at the kitchen. The bowls were still in the sink, and the counters still had empty wrappers and miscellaneous silverware piled high on them. Ryou wasn't anywhere in the kitchen.

The toilet door off to the side of the kitchen was closed and Bakura heard the sounds of running water. He cupped a hand around his ear. He narrowed his eyes as the sounds of muffled choking met his ears, a small sound just heard over the television. Plucking up the remote, in one absentminded motion, Bakura muted the inane show. What was he doing in there? Bakura pulled himself off the couch and silently walked to the toilet door on his tiptoes.

He placed both hands on the wall near the door, and leaned his head on the door. When the heaving gasps halted and the choking noises started up again, Bakura slid the door open before Ryou could react. Bakura saw Ryou hunched over the toilet, kneeling. His legs sprawled on the floor. One hand gripped the toilet bowl, the other halfway between the toilet and Ryou's mouth.

Bakura's nostrils filled with the acrid stench of vomit and salty pungent spice of ramen. He crinkled his nose. Half-digested curls of noodles dripped from Ryou's hovering hand to plop into the toilet bowl, floating with the rest of the lumps of sick. Bakura gulped back the bile that rose in his throat. He threw Ryou a venomous look, and left the room. He slid the door closed on autopilot and bolted to his room.

He slammed the door closed, and sunk to the floor leaning against the door in a familiar position. He glanced at the dresser drawer where his glass shard was currently shoved under a mound of clothes. His breath quickened. He went to stand, but his legs refused to budge. He curled into himself more. Bakura felt the prickle of wet at his eyes, the worry from earlier blossomed into a tight ball in his chest. He bit at his lip, all considerations shoved aside.

He reached into his pocket for the slightly crinkled card. The protector prevented the card from receiving too much damage from being shoved into his pocket. He held the card upside down over his palm, letting one of the blades fall into his exposed palm. Bakura balanced the blade between thumb and forefinger as he used his hand to roll up his uniform sleeve. He glanced at his arm, which was littered with scratches in various stages of healing.

Even with his constant attempts to stall the healing, the most recent cuts from a few days ago didn't cause him much pain anymore. Pain was just what he needed right now. Anything to rip the image of Ryou covered in his own vomit, of Ryou making himself vomit, all, this, time, from his mind, anything to silence the here and now, anything to stop his mind cold. Now.

He breathed in a quivering breath, gasping through the pain, the anger, the shit in his chest welling, ready to implode outwards. Images of Ryou—through a sliver in the door of the bathroom, the yellow light flowed out, almost an aura to Ryou, every choking gag as Ryou thrust his hand between lips, between ragged breaths, knees planted to the floor, an arm curled around plastic as Ryou vomited up ramen—flashed through Bakura's thoughts, finally settling on the back of his tongue, making it hard to swallow away. Like the intensity wound tightly in his chest, everything compounded.

The blade cut into the skin near his wrist before he had to think about cutting himself. Blood beaded up, little bubbles of red. In his mind's eye, he could still witness the ever replaying events, the knowledgeable awareness of the past few months; he slashed again, less than a finger's width away, slightly higher up on his arm. He registered sharp pain. Bakura saw the skin split open, far deeper than he had ever cut before. Blood filled the slightly gaping cut in the shape of a stretched out eye.

He dropped his arm to his propped knees. The first cut trickled a small line of blood that dried crusty to the skin at the bottom of his wrist. Bakura watched with interest as the second, deeper cut seemed to drown under the amount of blood. It poured in a larger torrent to his palm, the blood got caught in the wrinkled lines of his palm. It doesn't hurt, Bakura thought as he rested his head against the door.

Bakura stared at the steadily dripping blood, red tracks snaking around his wrist and hand, memorized. It had hurt as he cut into his skin. The first cut had stung, much like a paper cut, while the second cut ached, like a deep throbbing pain. But it didn't hurt now. It didn't feel like anything at all. A slow, relaxed exhale, a soft sight: all he felt was the dripping of blood into his palm, like everything around him, all his thoughts were dripping away.

…

A/N:

Japanese television: it's not what most anime/manga fans think it is—you know, all anime, all the time. No, free television channels show mostly game shows and funny spoofs. It's meant for pure entertainment. Yes, they do have anime and dramas and news, but it's mostly silly skits.

Eating disorders in Japan: this was not an easy topic to research. Because Japan is a collective society, a group mentality preferred over an individual's, people with mental illnesses feel extra shame because they are not succeeding. I'm probably botching this explanation up. I don't want to use generalization, because that's too simplistic. Instead of worrying about yourself and your illness, you would be worried about how your illness affects your group (school/work/family).

If I could post outside urls, I would link you all to this photo slideshow that explains this are more eloquently than I could. I guess, basically eating disorders did (in 1998) and do exist in Japan, but they aren't talked about. In this fanfiction, I'm taking some liberties and approaching Ryou's eating disorder from a western view in some regards, but Ryou—even in the English dub—is a very self sacrificing person, so he'll portray an eastern perspective too.

I dunno. I'm mutilating this explanation. If you have any questions, review or PM me so I know what information you're confused on. Part of my problem is I don't know where to start with this information dump.


	9. The Next Couple Days

A/N: The only reason this chapter is done on time is because I have absolutely nothing else to do at my niece's birthday party with 25 small evil children. I've been preparing for Halloween, which is my absolute favorite holiday—it's better than Christmas, so I might not get chapters out as quickly, especially closer to the end of October. I'll try my best though. ^_^

Chapter 9: The Next Couple Days

The knocking on his bedroom door roused Bakura from sleep. The sky outside his window was light and a bird chirped pleasantly: a merry tune that was the complete opposite of how Bakura felt. His head ached; his arm ached. He flexed his forearm, slightly repulsed as the dried blood cracked along his skin. The deeper cut reopened with an extra twinge of pain. A drop of blood bubbled up. He exhaled.

The knocking continued. "What?" He chose to ignore the slightly scratchy tone of his voice.

"Um...I wanted to apologize for last night..." Bakura glared at the door Ryou stood on the other side of. His ears picked up the sound of metal creaking. He glanced at the doorknob, which was turning. His eyes widened, and his heart sped up in his chest. Bakura pulled down his sleeve over his hand, and lunged for the other side of the room in one fluid motion.

Bakura let his dark bangs fall in front of his eyes as Ryou entered the room. Ryou was too busy looking at his feet to notice any strange reaction from Bakura. "I, um, I felt sick yesterday, and I thought, you know?"

Bakura sneered at the obvious attempt at a lie. "Whatever you say, landlord." He gathered a set of uniform clothes with his uninjured arm. "I'm taking a bath," he announced, leaving Ryou alone in his room.

A questioning murmur made him stop abruptly on his path to the bathroom. Ryou kneeled against the floor, near the door frame. His card! He must've dropped it sometime last night as he watched he blood trickle down his arm. Bakura was at Ryou's side before he could pluck the card from the floor.

"It's just a card," he said gruffly. He grabbed the card from the floor, taking it with him to the bath.

…

Bakura plopped himself into a chair at the kitchen table, hair still soaked with droplets of water, as Ryou set a plate of food in front of him. He cocked an eyebrow at the single plate.

"I'm eating," Ryou said, defensiveness coloring his speech. He grabbed a bowl of soup from the counter, eating whilst leaning against the cabinets.

Bakura speared some vegetables. "Course you are." His plate included a colorful array of vegetables and proteins, solid healthy foods, while Ryou's soup, Bakura noticed with each spoonful Ryou ate, was watered down and mostly broth.

Ryou sulked out of the kitchen after finishing, parting with words that soured Bakura's mood, "We need to leave soon."

Bakura glowered at his breakfast, acutely aware of the card jammed into his pants pocket and the stinging beneath his shirt sleeve. Sarcastic diatribes ran through his mind. He curled his lips at Ryou's retreating figure clothed in his oversized, baggy uniform. No shit they needed to leave soon, especially, as Ryou implied, because he had bathed this morning.

Not long after Ryou locked himself inside the bathroom, drowning out any noise with the running bath water, Bakura slammed the apartment door shut and stomped towards the fire escape stairwell. His impromptu bath this morning must've thrown off Ryou's barfing schedule. He shot a venomous look at an older lady from their floor that deigned to stare at him for longer than the polite few seconds.

He walked out of the building, hands fisted deep in his uniform pockets and arms tense. His arm hurt from last night, and he channeled that pain as he stalked through the neighborhood, walking in the opposite direction from his usual school route.

The May weather, hot and humid with the promise of rain in the near future, made trickles of sweat drip down his back between his shoulder blades, but he hardly noticed the discomfort as he marched past a small play park about fifteen minutes from Ryou's apartment. The slight breeze seemed to nestle deep within the confines of his head, disrupting thoughts with gentle swirls.

After the short walk, Bakura felt grounded, rooted almost; he was able to put aside the occasional twinges along his arm.

Until Marik's voice shattered the relative peace. "You do know you're going the wrong way?" A question uttered in a nasal voice as Marik pitched his voice to sound more patronizing.

Bakura glared, expressing the anger he still felt after Marik's betrayal in Battle City. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Yugi and Yami tagging along: Marik's newest allies. He swallowed back bile that slicked the back of his throat and curled his hands into fists. The flashes of pain throbbing along the gash from the night before flared.

"Really," he drawled in a dead pan voice, "I didn't know."

Bakura stepped back into his former walking gait as he felt the presence of another person infringing in his personal space. He swiveled around, narrowly escaping Yami's grip that threatened to enclose his cut up arm.

"What?" he snarled to cloak the panic at the edges of his voice.

"Aren't you coming?" Yami asked. He cocked his head like a predator stalking its prey.

Bakura scowled back. He ran his fingers through his hair, anything to keep his fingers from inching up his sleeve so overtly. "No, got a problem with that, your highness?"

Yami bristled; Bakura noticed at the edges of his vision as he turned abruptly and marched off. He let his fingers brush against his injured arm as he heard Yugi chime in. "Leave it be, guys."

"What?" Yami exclaimed. "Just let him do as he pleases?"

"I wonder why he's…" Marik's question trailed off as Bakura walked out of hearing range. The last thing he heard from the group was Yugi's voice, a soft murmur that rang of sincere empathy.

Bakura cringed and cast off anything he felt. After last night, he felt justified in his contentment as he walked further and further away from Domino High.

The sun dipped beneath the farther off skyscrapers of the city, turning everything golden as Bakura approached the apartment he shared with Ryou. After hours of walking wherever his feet led him in random directions, the tightness in his chest and his heavy heart had lifted. He breathed easier, mind at ease.

As day turned to dust, the cold spring night settled around him, Bakura forgot why he remained clothed in long sleeves. Schools hadn't yet switched to the summer uniforms, carrying out the outdated policy to a metaphoric T, but the weather called for looser, cooler clothes.

The climate controlled air of the apartment's entryway first floor assaulted him. The heat served as a reminder that summer was fast approaching. Bakura's insides squirmed, a feeling he desperately tried to ignore, shoving it away into a dark recess of his mind. He had no idea how to cope with the impending heat wave; he acutely remembered past summers.

The lone rider on the elevator, Bakura allowed himself to roll down his uniform sleeve and stare at his arm, at the multitude of crisscrossing scars, and cuts in various stages of healing.

He flattened the sleeve back over his wrist. Resolute finality silenced his concern: no way in hell would Bakura ever reveal his arm. It was as simple as that.

He slipped off his shoes and stepped up into the kitchen of Ryou's apartment, taking in the spotless appliances, completely empty of any cooking attempt. Not that Ryou would be put out by not eating, Bakura reminded himself.

He flopped down on the couch, ignoring the annoyance that emanated from Ryou, who sat, curled up sideways, in the armchair, reading a book. "Where have you been?" He asked as he flipped the page in his book.

Bakura shrugged, unconcerned that Ryou wasn't actually looking at him. "Take it you weren't hungry?" Bakura shot back, an accusation. He gestured at the perfectly clean kitchen; Ryou glared down at the book nestled on his lap.

"I've been home for hours," Ryou said hotly, and Bakura remembered today was Saturday. Ryou must've been home alone since early afternoon. He refused to let his cheeks flush.

Ryou's silent reprimand about Bakura skipping school hung in the air. He ended the passive aggressive fight with, "We have to meet Kaiba tomorrow at Yugi's, so don't forget."

Bakura, in reply, jumped off the couch and flung himself down the short hallway, locking himself in his bedroom.

…

The walk to the Mouto residence the next morning was completely silent, with Ryou swinging between dread that Bakura knew about him and hopeful bliss that Bakura's ignorance about his condition and anger upon discovering it, would prevent the thief from telling anyone. With Bakura's absence at school yesterday, the consequences had been delayed.

Luckily or unluckily. He pursed his lips as he mused, going over the same repetitive thoughts. He shouldn't be doing this. Logical, he knew that. Up until the spirits' sudden returns to their life, he had been coping, he'd been dealing.

Not even a week after, found him in a repeat of last summer. His eyes burned and he blinked back the tears. Ryou reassured himself that it wasn't that bad yet…

Bakura stared ahead, eyes level with distant scenery, his preferred method of 'staring at the ground.' He inwardly cringed at the thought of displaying such an overt weakness in front of Ryou. The cuts he had made last night after locking himself behind his bedroom door still stung as the fabric of his sleeve stretched over his forearm.

He bit back the calming sigh that worked its way from his throat. He let the pain drown out the tumbling myriad of raw emotions coursing through his veins, making his blood boil.

They stopped in front of the living quarters of Kame Game shop, and Ryou rang the doorbell. The door swung open revealing a chipper Yugi. Bakura caught sight of the Pharaoh and Marik and his scowl deepened.

"Hey Ryou, Bakura. Kaiba should be here soon." Yugi said as he stepped back to allow them to enter.

"Rich boy will lower his standards to meet here?" The cruel words cut through the room before Bakura realized what he said. He flopped on the couch, repressing a hiss as his injured arm smacked against a cushion.

Marik glanced over from the armchair he shared with Yugi. "You should be more respectful, Bakura."

Acrid bile coated Bakura's throat as the insult stopped him cold. He flexed his fingers without considering what he was doing and nestled himself further into the couch cushions. He half wondered if he could suffocate in the thick fabric. "Fuck off," he snapped.

Ryou slumped to the floor, sitting against the couch Bakura claimed. Yami glowered down at Bakura from where he stood behind the armchair.

"You could make room for Ryou," he commented, looking down his nose at Bakura. He propped his elbows on the top of the armchair.

Bakura curled his hands into fists, halting the soothing repetition of curling and uncurling his fingers. He looked down at Ryou. "He's fine."

"Yami, I am fine," Ryou reassured from his spot. He had curled up upon himself, knees folded to his chest and arms reaching around to lock himself in that position. He followed the conversation with his eyes as his head rested against his knees.

A knock on the door as the clocked chimed the new hour, prevented Yami from retorting or bodily removing Bakura from the couch, where he remained burrowed into the cushions. Yami opened the door, and let Kaiba walk into the room.

The CEO sat in the sole empty space, the other armchair parallel to the couch where Bakura laid. Bakura quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not acknowledge Kaiba as he crossed his legs and greeted the group with an unconcerned sneer.

"Would you like some tea?" Yugi asked, pushing himself out of the armchair. He headed to the kitchen at Kaiba imperceptible nod.

They sat in silence until Yugi returned with six mugs and a kettle of tea with the fixings all balanced on a platter. He poured a cup for Kaiba first, offering the small plate of sugar, lemon rind, and cream, then moved to Ryou, Bakura, Marik, Yami, and finally himself.

Once they were seated with their steaming tea mugs, Kaiba opened with an informal question, "You wanted to meet me?"

Yugi nodded towards Ryou, but the boy just stared forlornly into his green tea and the floating lemon peel, before taking it upon himself to speak. "Yeah, we just wanted to make sure everything is okay financially? Do you need anything?"

Kaiba smirked around his tea mug. He set the porcelain cup down on the coffee table. "And what can you give me?" he asked with a nasty sneer.

Bakura made to speak, springing into a sitting position, and Ryou quickly jumped up to silence him. Bakura collapsed back down against the cushions. He ground his teeth together against the pins and needles sensation numbing his lips.

"I know we can't offer much, Kaiba," Ryou said, cutting off Bakura's ugly slur before he spoke it. "But whatever we can do. We are really grateful."

Marik chimed, "Especially me. You're providing me with a life." He meant a life outside of his tomb keeping duty, which Kaiba was already familiar with.

Yami also nodded fiercely from where he towered above Yugi. Kaiba glanced at Bakura lounging on the couch, "And what about you?" he questioned darkly, not so subtly basking in his rivals' coerced humbleness.

This time, Bakura spoke before Ryou had an opportunity to quiet him. "I have nothing to say to you, you bastard." He crossed his arms in defiance.

Kaiba stared, mouth gapping like a fish, his lips flapping as he tried to formulate a response. After a long moment, he slammed down his mug of tea, the remaining liquid sloshing against the ridged contours of the cup, grabbed his briefcase, and stalked out, slamming the door on his way.

The remaining occupants turned to openly glare at Bakura. "What?" he snapped, throwing his legs off the couch (Ryou ducked away from the sudden action) and harshly sitting up.

Yami was the first to cross the room. He grabbed Bakura by the collar of his shirt, forcing the thief to stand up. In retaliation, Bakura grabbed Yami's arms, the tight grip of his fingers pressed in Yami's upper arms sure to leave bruises.

"What is your problem?" Yami snarled. Bakura grinned. He shoved Yami back, letting him smack his head against the coffee table as the tea cups fell to the floor at the abrupt motion. The carpet soaked up the rivulets of liquid and cushioned the impact from table to floor.

Bakura grinned at his apparent victory, until Marik stepped in, offering Yami a hand as he spoke to Kaiba's defense. "Look, I don't like Kaiba anymore than you do, but we have to be polite. He's doing us a favor."

Bakura dropped back down, legs collapsing, to the couch. His lips were still numb; he touched a finger to them, only to notice they were trembling. He let his hair fall forward to swallow his face. The room was silent and unexpectedly oppressing and stifling. The walls seemed to lose in, dragging the glaring faces closer and closer to him.

Mental resources depleted, Bakura roared. "I didn't ask for his help!" He flung himself off the couch and followed Kaiba's path out the door.

A/N:

I was catching up on fanfiction, when I came to the realization that I skim, rather than read fanfiction (unless it's on my kindle), so I shortened up the paragraphs. Do you guys prefer how this chapter is, or would you rather me to write them as I have been (with novel paragraphs)?

I assume no one has an issue with Ryou's eating disorder since I have the same amount of views? I really do wonder what everyone thinks about that. I've done some more research about eating disorders and mental illnesses in Japan and it's, quite frankly, alarming. As wonderful as some aspects of Japan are, their mental health information is lacking.

It's like a time warp to the late 1970s. There is more knowledge now than there was in, say 1998 (even very intellectual professionals do not know about mental health; they just don't), but the shame aspect and the extra guilt the sufferer feels for being a 'drain' to society…

I guess my point is that I'm using a western model regarding eating disorders or the more casual anime/manga approach (cultural expectations and views are relaxed in most anime/mangas).


	10. Conformity

A/N: Sorry for the late update! I blame a mix of writer's block and personal drama more than Halloween preparations (I wish it had been for Halloween).

Chapter 10: Conformity

Bakura flung himself angrily into a swing at the local park nestled between the Mouto's and Ryou's apartment, startling a group of young children and their parents. He ignored the glares in favor of clenching his hands into fists around the chains. Pain flared up his arm as the muscles flexed. As he sat, rocking the swing back and forth whilst digging his feet in the muddy ground beneath him, he felt the plastic of the card protector poke against his thigh even through the thick denim of his jeans.

He let out a breath as the heat rushed away from his cheeks, and the anger dissolved into mortification. He tightened his grip on the swing's chains bringing forth pain that quelled the ache in his head and the burning behind his eyelids. He swallowed a lump in his throat, throwing his head back to stare at the murky June sky. A strange emotion rippled in his belly, coiling in his gut.

A small voice interrupted the pooling hopelessness, "You need help?" Bakura blinked. He noticed a young child, five or six, peering into his own eyes. He flipped upright, twisting the chains to face the child directly. He leered at the child, the little boy with messy hair and innocent eyes. The familiarity of the child tore at him like a knife to the abdomen, and he spoke between clenched teeth.

"What?" A cross between a grunt and moan tore from his lips as his mind reeled with shock.

The child cocked his head to a side. Bakura stared into wide eyes similar to his own at the massacre of Kul Elna. He deepened the intensity of his glare, a front against his own swirling maelstrom of thoughts. "Are you okay, mister?"

"I'm fine. Go away," Bakura spat, acid coating his verbiage. He untwisted the chains in the swing, turning away from the child, but not before witnessing the same misery present in his own eyes whenever he glanced in a mirror.

…

School the next day would have been unbearable without the help of two new cuts from the razor blade hidden behind the Change of Heart card. The knowledge of Ryou intentionally making himself sick pressed heavily on his mind, even dampening the relaxing effect of watching blood drip down his arm. Bakura spend most of the psychology lecture ignoring the teacher drone on about depression. He scratched at the littering of cuts underneath his sleeve as he contemplated how to broach Ryou's behavior.

He half wanted to just let it fester in denial-induced ignorance and pretend he never truly understood the severity of what Ryou was doing. The term eating disorder was completely foreign to him; there had never been this sort of thing when he was mortal the first time around. Not eating and throwing up what one did eat was so ridiculous and so against nature. To survive as a thief and tomb robber, eating was just a basic function of life.

A cut reopened as Bakura scratched harshly to quell the anger at Ryou's disturbances; warm liquid coated his finger. He rubbed away the potentially incriminating evidence. The anger, raw and gnashing, swelling in his gut, influenced him to do something, to take action as much as he preferred to wallow in the truth. He forced back a grimace, schooling his expression into a mask of indifference as if to match a lack of concern regarding Ryou that he forced himself to believe.

During the break between classes, Bakura left the room, walking past the Pharaoh's pointed glares, past Kaiba's refusal to acknowledge any of the spirits or Yugi and his friends, past Ryou's haunted gaze, eyes puffy and bloodshot, speckled with broken blood vessels and deep bags, past the unfriendly gaze of everyone else.

Head held high against the festering anger/sorrow/loneliness boiling and buzzing in his brain, he marched into the toilets at the end of the hall. The swirling chaos in his mind, the impending uncertainly of apologizing to Kaiba everyone had been pressuring him to do, Ryou's awful secret vomiting, the constant…everything, was silenced, tunneled into one precise cut with his blade. Bakura blinked the emotions away as he dotted the slowly drying blood on his arm.

…

"You need to apologize to Kaiba," Yugi said in a calm voice. Bakura, high on the endorphin rush from his most recent self inflicted injury, nodded, too relaxed to really care. Deep in his chest, his heart sped faster in anger, but he chose not to notice the feeling as his increased heart rate worked to match the throbbing his arm, underneath his uniform shirt and jacket. Yugi leaned forward, pressing his palms against Bakura's desk, speaking in the barest whisper, "We really need the money he provides. Please, Bakura."

"Fine," Bakura spat in the form of a long suffering sigh. "If it pleases you so much." Even as he spoke the seemingly indifferent words, his conscious niggled at him, reminding him that his very existence as Bakura Mouto in the dawn of the twenty-first century was dependant on the billionaire's cash supply.

Swallowing the bile in his throat and pressing firmly against his arm to ignite a sharp pain, he formally addressed Seto Kaiba whilst walking the length of the room to stand by his desk, face to face. Pulling together the best of his experiences with imitating Ryou, he attempted an apology.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was unwarranted, and I do appreciate your efforts." Bakura murmured in a low voice, acid licking the sides of his throats and hands clenching into fists underneath his sleeves. Unlike the times as a carbon copy Ryou, Bakura could not play this like a game or a challenge. This moment was real, for Ryou's sake, though he himself would never consciously admit that.

So when Kaiba replied with a disdainful sneer, and scathing words, "You mean you appreciate my money," Bakura fought the urges to either punch the rich bastard in his face or whip out a blade and cut himself up in public. A moment passed; Bakura stared at Kaiba's face without actually seeing it, refusing to look away, refusing to show a sign of weakness.

Finally Kaiba stood, grabbed his school items and said, "Look, I don't really care. I'm only doing this for Mokuba's sake, so it's him you need to placate. Not me."

With that, Kaiba walked away. Bakura let out a breath. As Yugi smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, Bakura turned and whirled around, this time racing to the toilets, the Change of Heart already in hand. As he kicked opened the door with his foot, Bakura dumped a blade into his palm. He had just closed the bathroom stall door, when he dug the razor edge into his arm, on top of the most recent cut.

And his world exploded in pain.

…

Bakura's stomach twisted into knots and acid crawled up his throat. Their homeroom teacher's announcement settled firmly against his chest, forcing air from his lungs. He knew this was coming, but, now, as the teacher enunciated his speech with, "Starting tomorrow, I expect you all to wear the summer uniform," he, somehow, forgot or hid behind an iron clad fortress of denial.

Bakura bit back a groan. His teeth sink into the tender flesh of his inner cheek. In March, when he first received the duo uniforms, the winter version with thicker fabrics, a long sleeve polo shirt and blue jacket, and the summer uniform, thinner pants and a short sleeved polo, he hadn't worried about the sleeve length. But, now, his arm ached under the cuts and scratches on his right arm.

He absolutely could not wear the summer uniform. The period switched with the entrance of the first period teacher. As the class stood to greet the teacher, Bakura tried his damndest to ignore the unfurling panic in his gut.

Tomorrow came and went. Bakura donned his long sleeved polo shirt and jacket, refusing to answer Ryou's questioning looks at the breakfast table, which wasn't unusual or anything of the like, as Bakura's disposition at meal times tended to be sour. The homeroom teacher never lifted an eyebrow at Bakura's reluctance to wear the summer uniform, until much later in June, near the last week.

The first weeks of June dribbled past in monotonous repetition; any semblance of a relationship between Bakura and Ryou poured away like the constant rains. Meal times, aside from breakfast, fast became informal, as Bakura usually whipped up something of the instant variety, while Ryou, between his starving and eating, something surely, for all the puking he was doing, chose to not eat—at least not in Bakura's presence.

It had been going on for months without his knowledge or awareness, Bakura realized in hindsight. Ryou had a set routine and after Bakura caught him forcing himself to vomit almost a month ago, Ryou decided to fling his eating disorder into the light, letting Bakura see beneath the façade. Every little ritual and routine turned jaded and macabre with sinister plotting on Ryou's behalf. Anything to fuel this strange modern illness, so it seemed to Bakura.

Surely Yugi's friends knew about what Ryou was doing at this point. It was all so fucking obvious. Before Bakura rose, Ryou would make their lunches, eating as he cooked, then puked. He used to shower in the mornings to drown out the sounds and wash away the odor. Everything, absolutely everything tinged with the reek of acrid stomach bile, suffocating Bakura. Ryou would forget his lunch; Ryou would eat dinner, at some point when Bakura deigned to shut himself away, bathe and vomit. Hell, he even included side meals to compliment the meals he wasn't digesting!

The rain pounded against the apartment windows, as Bakura spent his afternoon behind the locked door in his room cutting. Ryou puttered in the kitchen, making small noises as he prepared one of those extra meals. Bakura scowled. His mouth suddenly felt dry as sand paper as he attempted to swallow away the lump in his throat.

The stinging on his arm drew his attention to the skin littered with new cuts. After a good portion of an hour cutting against the sounds of Ryou preparing food to be thrown back up, then the actual heaves, gasps, and splash back of the puking, his arm plain hurt.

Everything hurt. From the harsh treatment of blade swiping at skin to the foreign thing stopping up his throat, to the wretched sounds Ryou made as he forced the laws of nature into reverse, to the stinging under his eyelids, to his teeth puncturing his lower lip, and, finally, to the switching of the razor blade from his right hand to his left.

Bakura held the flimsy paper thin metal in his codominant hand, fingers scrambled to find the proper position to hold the blade to best serve cutting. He awkwardly fumbled with his sleeve, rolling up the fabric on his left arm for the first time for this purpose. Settled, he sliced into the unmarked flesh.

A thrill coursed through him, much like the first time he had ever cut, as three perfect beads of blood squeezed through the thin line on his arm, the only mark to taint the perfect peach of unscarred flesh.

Bakura let his head fall back to rest against the bed which he leaned against. He stared up at the paint on the ceiling as his arm throbbed.

…

Bakura walked down a rarely traveled hallway to the teachers' office one afternoon in late June. After nearly a month of silence about his refusal to wear the summer uniform, complete with short sleeves, his homeroom teacher finally called him out. When extra cleaning duties hadn't coerced him into conforming, the teacher requested his presence.

Bakura forced his shoulders to remain still, swallowing down the urge to shrug noncommittally at the teacher's demand. He certainly did not care about the extra cleaning duties; he had already committed to a humid summer in long sleeves, even purchasing shirts made with thinner fabrics on one of the rare shopping endeavors with Ryou.

As he knocked on the office door, his lips quirked at the memory of shopping with Ryou. Those excursions often ended with the two boys separating ways to place items in the basket: instant ramen and the occasional article of clothing for Bakura, and an assortment of basic ingredients to stock the kitchen and a couple hastily explained away sweets for Ryou. Chocolates, mochi, whatever it was, it always had a thinly veiled destination, a ruse for ending up in the toilet with stomach acid.

The door slid open, prying Bakura from the endless depression thoughts, and one of the lower grade level teachers guided him to his homeroom teacher's work space (the office was filled with rows upon rows of desks). Bakura took the offered chair at the other edge of the desk, near a stack of papers.

He let his arms flop to his sides, a maneuver to take any attention away from his covered arms. "Yes?" he asked, neither admitting nor confessing anything,

Mr. Kobayashi, the recent graduate from a prestigious university—information Bakura knew from the teacher's own mouth—and the homeroom teacher for his class, glanced at Bakura over his glasses. The glasses Bakura knew were fake from his autopilot note taking; he'd spent numerous classes watching the teacher read over his glasses or pick out students in the back row without ever glancing through the lenses.

As Kobayashi narrowed his gaze, looking down at Bakura, Bakura realized the purpose of those faux glasses: an intimidation act. An act which didn't really faze Bakura. His indifference to most authority kept his nerves at bay, even as he prepared for the inevitable lecture on his apparel.

"Mr. Mouto, I noticed you have not switched to the summer uniform." He spoke formally, in a pompous tone surely picked up from university.

Bakura shrugged, against his volition, and slouched further into his seat. "'M cold." He picked at his pants, at his winter uniform pants. A sickening thought crossed his mind. Would the teacher make him wear the short sleeves? No, he reasoned. He couldn't very well be forced.

"Well, yes, I suppose that would be an issue." Again with the snottily tone. He gestured to his peers with a wave of his hand to the other teachers. "However, even us teachers are wearing more relaxed clothing to accommodate the summer temperatures."

Bakura bristled. His teacher basically called him out on is bluff. No way could he be cold in this weather. With the lack of air conditioning and class rooms crammed with bodies, the school was downright hellish. Underneath his layers, sweat trickled down his back, just sitting in the vicinity of other people.

He stayed silent, letting the teacher continue to lecture in monologue. "Before you enter the school gates, and when you leave after school hours, you—that is your body—represents this school. Everyone here is required to follow the dress code." He smiled arrogantly down at Bakura. "Consider this before you return tomorrow."

He stood, and Bakura followed suit, taking advantage of the overt dismissal. His heart felt lighter in his chest as he slid the door shut behind him. Other than a vague reprimand on conformity, the teacher hadn't bothered to set disciplinary measures.

After all, it was already the end of June. With summer break spanning the month of August, he only had a month to get through, before Domino switched back to winter uniforms in September.

A voice brought his heart sinking back to reality as he entered the main part of the building. Ryou waved at him from the shoe racks. He had already changed into his tennis shoes. "Hey Bakura, come here."

Bakura grunted in surprise that Ryou spoke to him. Usually the brat remained silent, unless they were discussing food or Ryou's behavior around food, of course. He grabbed his own shoes and slipped them on as Ryou continued to speak at him.

"Kaiba invited us to Mokuba's birthday party in a couple weeks. Here." Bakura glared down at the proffered invitation.

"Isn't the kid's birthday next weekend?" He asked as he noticed the party date set for the nineteenth. Simply from sitting near Ryou's friends, he had absorbed that much information. "Whatever," Bakura said as he crumpled up the invitation and threw it against the racks. "I'm not going anyway."

Footsteps echoed against the wooden floor, and Kaiba's voice, a bit quieter than normal from his distance across the room, but clear nonetheless, called, "I have a business meeting next week—"

"On a Sunday?" Ryou interrupted.

"Unfortunately," Kaiba said in a clipped manner. He smirked at Bakura as he addressed him. "You will be attending, because he is the only reason I fund you." Bakura choked, unable to breathe. He whirled around, and stalked out of the school, leaving Kaiba and Ryou behind.

A/N:

From June 1st to September 1st (give or take a couple weeks depending on the location in Japan), Japanese students switch to a cooler, summer version of their uniforms. They are usually made with thinner fabric and short sleeves. I don't exactly know what would happen to a student who continued to wear long sleeves to school.

I know it happens; it must happen. People do self injure in Japan, at the very least, and other students surely would prefer long sleeves for whatever reason. I think, at most, the student would be lectured on fitting for the group's sake or the school's sake, but I don't know if they would be continually harassed.

The example that comes to mind is Ayumu in the manga "Life" by Keiko Suenobu. Yes it's a manga, so it's not real life, but there are real life Ayumus who wear long sleeves and self harm. I just don't know how Japanese schools react to it. If anyone has more information, feel free to share.

Next chapter is very angry, just so you know. ^_^


	11. Shaded Truths

A/N: I could've had this chapter out early this week, but I was quasi affected by Hurricane Sandy. Luckily we didn't get much damage, nowhere near what was forecasted, but I was conserving my netbook's battery just in case (which is more complicated than one would think since the power cord is dying).

Chapter 11: Shaded Truths

Bakura tore from the school gates, running away from the conversation with Kaiba and Ryou. Blood boiled in his ears, and resounded in his skull. He couldn't breathe as Kaiba's voice, Kaiba's insistence, washed over him, pressing into his lungs. He ran away as fast as his feet could carry him. The pounding of his sneakers against concrete pavement matched the pounding in his head. He had to get out of here, had to get the fuck away before this pressure burst from him.

But where to go? The apartment wasn't an option. Ryou would be home shortly after to question his behavior or to puke up an afterschool snack. Either option was too unpleasant to deal with. Finally, he followed his feet's lead, and ran aimlessly, letting the rushing wind swirl into his mind, calm the pounding in his skull.

After a while, he slowed. Recognition brought his pace to a walk, and he realized his chest was heaving, and he gasped for breath. Sucking in lungfuls of air, Bakura surveyed his location. He remembered the area from a few weeks ago, after the altercation with Kaiba, after mocking the rich bastard in the Mouto residence.

He surmised he was about a block from the park he had found a semblance of solace at. He walked the block, and settled himself into the shaded area under a clump of trees. The park wasn't empty—in fact the little boy from last time cheered at his mother, whom pushed him on the swings across the park were here—, but, with his back turned against the small children and the protection the trees provided, Bakura relaxed in the privacy.

A quick glance at the streets to ensure no one paid him any mind, and he dumped a blade in his hand and pushed up his sleeve. He cut into his arm, and everything squeezed out of him in the form of droplets and dribbled away with the blood snaking paths around his arm.

"Bakura?" Another familiar voice broke the serenity of the moment. Yami. Bakura shoved his sleeve down over his hand and crossed his arms. He glowered up at Yami and the rest of their trio, Marik and Yugi, in response.

"What are you doing out all the way over here?" Yugi crinkled his forehead and stared at Bakura's arms openly. Bakura suppressed the tremor that shivered down his spine.

"Nothing. I have to go." He pulled himself to his feet and prepared to skulk away, when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. The force nearly caused him to topple to the ground. His arms uncrossed as he struggled to remain upright. "Fuck!" he cried out.

He looked into Yami's narrowed eyes. "Whatever you're up to thief," Yami insinuated.

Bakura quickly re-crossed his arms at the sight of blood staining his uniform jacket. He sucked in a breath as the pain from cutting settled in. The cut must've been deep. He could feel it now, between the deep ache that shouted something was wrong to the blood seeping through two layers and possibly staining his jacket length also. After a long moment of silence between the four, as the cut ached horribly and the sticky feel of blood against cotton urged him away, Bakura spat, "Fuck off, Pharaoh," and turned and walked away.

…

Bakura fidgeted with the ends of his uniform sleeves as he sat in homeroom class. Kobayashi made his announcements, and Bakura seethed. The bastard excuse of a teacher demanded his presence in extra afterschool cleaning hours. Not long after meeting with the teacher to address his 'refusal to comply with authority'—or as Bakura saw it: continuing to don long sleeves—Kobayashi threatened him with extra cleaning responsibilities as an incentive for wearing his short sleeved uniform.

All students were required to stay late, after school every other week or so, to organize the classroom after the day's lessons. Bakura noticed his name appeared more frequently on the task sheet.

As Kobayashi passed his desk, Bakura crossed his arms lower than his chest, near his abdomen, under the security of the desk top. If the teacher couldn't see his long sleeves, surely the extra fabric must not be an issue. Bakura contemplated telling his homeroom teacher, even going as far as to approach the man after the last period of the day.

He hoped to explain the necessity of wearing long sleeves throughout the summer months, to appease the teacher—not so much to escape the indignity of more time spent at school, but the inevitable unknown (what if Kobayashi did something worse?) That hadn't gone as planned; Bakura stuttered out a clipped "Good afternoon, sir," and let Kobayashi walk off.

As homeroom ended, and psychology started, Bakura let the thoughts trickle away. It was no use worrying now. Between the failed explanation with Kobayashi and his carefully phrased questions to Ryou (that had been a practice in revealing nothing whilst gleaning important information: the age of majority was twenty; minors were not held responsible, instead their guardians were informed), Bakura's resolve reaffirmed.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Ryou a few rows behind him. Talking with Ryou about Japanese social customs had been neither pleasant nor easy. He ended up talking the direct route, placing all of Ryou's fears on a proverbial plate. Every question Bakura uttered was molded to the guise of Ryou's eating disorder.

After a half hour, Ryou stalked out of the room. The two spoke even more infrequently than the first couple days after Bakura had caught his former landlord regurgitating his food. The most important chunk of knowledge Bakura absorbed, the piece that broke off Ryou's shattered mask, informed him to remain silent, to be grateful he never explained his situation with Kobayashi.

Harmful acts committed to one's self, by law, must be reported to the minor's guardian. This is where Ryou plucked a handful of courage and questioned Bakura's curiosity, and Bakura wrenched any clarity from his host, snarling about his disgusting food habits. Conversation over.

The class and Bakura stood to greet the psychology teacher with a demure bow, and the day's first lesson began.

…

The two weeks between Kaiba's invitation and the brat's party were miserable ones for Bakura. Even his current pastime of staring up into the faint swirls and designs of the paint on his bedroom ceiling couldn't halt the gut clenching sensation that nearly made him crumple over when the mere thought of this party flittered into existence.

Cutting it out was only effective as long as blood steadily dripped down his arm. Between the dread of this party, the social event of the year for all the middle schoolers, and Ryou withering away in front of him, Bakura was taxed out. His emotions frayed at the end, and anything and everything set him off.

The puking had increased. Bakura could hazard a guess as to why, and he disliked the answer. His scapegoating onto Ryou—he deserves it; his mind hollered a defense—only made Ryou eat less and vomit more. Bakura rubbed his arm one last time before leaving his room for this dreaded party, and entered the kitchen, shuffling his feet like a death row inmate on call for his last meal.

"Morning," he said to Ryou, not bothering with their usual breakfast tradition of fighting over what Ryou didn't eat, or what Ryou ate and puked. His stomach twisted in over its self as he attempted to keep down the breakfast Ryou placed at his spot.

Finally, right before noon, Bakura and Ryou stepped out of the apartment in unison. Ryou stared at the ground, eyes downcast, as he hid himself from Bakura's irritable countenance—irritable because where he was headed or because Ryou had purged his breakfast? Bakura trailed slightly behind, staring at, if he had been face-to-face with him, Ryou's eye level, but not comprehending anything, the knot in his stomach growing as he approached his own personal death knoll.

…

It boiled in his stomach, gurgling somewhere mixed in with acid. Bakura clenched his fist against the sound, the achingly familiar sounds of retching—sounds he now associated with the near constant stinging of fresh cuts and the sight of droplets of blood dotting his forearms. The anger coiled up, reaching out of his stomach to nestle in his throat at the images that dance across his mind. He imagined Ryou behind the closed door of a random toilet along one of Kaiba's many hallways.

The irony of this situation didn't fail to lift an iota of the rage blurring the, most likely, real gold door handle, even as the familiar gasps creep from under the western style, thick wooden door. Intimately familiar with Ryou's purging, Bakura recognized it quicker than he cottoned on when Ryou decided to have a proper conversation.

Bakura stood, outside the door, in a hallway, in Seto Kaiba's mansion at a party designed for middle school kids—specifically the brat Mokuba's party he adamantly refused to attend. And here he stood, arms aching from a long night spent cutting away his pride. The anger shoved away these thoughts as Ryou, from somewhere behind the door, flushed.

Now, Bakura told himself, he would run a paper towel against the edge of the toilet seat, then wash his hands and arms all the way to the elbow, along with his face. _Mustn't stink like he had shoved a hand down his throat._ After that, he would check the mirror at his reflection. _Nothing like eating and puking to make Ryou vain_.

Bakura's face pinched into a scowl when Ryou exited, silently maneuvering the door into its lock without that irritating click. _Not that Ryou didn't have expertise regarding all the tips of the trade_.The thought made him glare more overtly into Ryou's face.

Ryou paled, and he ducked under Bakura's penetrating gaze, assured Bakura wouldn't ever say anything. Bakura's hatred of Ryou's friends overruled any hatred Bakura felt for Ryou himself. A faint half smirk etched into his face when Bakura grabbed his shoulder, and forcibly swung him around to face him.

The rage, the all consuming, licking up into his head making it hard to think rage, swept everything away, except the lone urge to throttle Ryou. To make him feel every nick, cut, gash Bakura carved into his arms. He grit his teeth at the anger that quickly dissolved into fear on Ryou's pale face, at the red dots around his eyes that went unnoticed by his friends, at the small beads of sweat mingling with hastily splashed water dripping near his hairline.

Then Bakura slapped him across that face. Just like he felt after cutting, that one moment of aggression melted from him like a stick of butter left out in the summer heat. A calmness flickered through his nerve endings, but at the frown fast taking over the stunned look on Ryou's face, Bakura could not feel any relief.

Instead, the sadder Ryou's pathetic, scrawny ass face looked, complete with two at tears threatening to leak over his water line, and creep picturesquely down his sunken cheeks, the more his mind screamed to fuck off out of there. Red slowly blossomed on the corner of Ryou's face where it had come into contact with a sharp hand.

And Bakura hightailed it out of the party, past the mob-like crowd of preteens gathering around the newest video game console, through another room filled with presents and the majority of Yugi's friends stacking the multitude of gifts like indentured servants, and around a kitchen he remembered seeing on his way in, where the remains of the elaborate meal sat. He ran away from Ryou and anybody who would feel entitled to ask questions. He showed up; what more could they fucking ask for?

…

Later that night, as Ryou returned home from Kaiba's party, Bakura sat on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table and idly flicked trough channels. He never cared too much about television, so when the apartment door opened and Ryou stepped up into the kitchen, Bakura did not react. He kept his eyes locked to the mindless television show, even as Ryou sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

Ryou brought his knees to his chest and looked into Bakura's eyes for the first time in a long while with a focused glint in his eyes, like a fog had lifted. His eyebrows threatened to bleed into his eyes. "We were looking for you."

Bakura shrugged at the television screen, at the images of a game show contestant creating a record breaking piece of sushi. "Why'd you leave?" Ryou asked, again.

And Bakura turned to face Ryo. Without the haze his eating disorder kept him in, Ryou's appearance shifted, morphing into something entirely different than what Bakura was accustomed to. The landlord he had known was weak, complacent. He wondered momentarily if Ryou had been vomiting on purpose back then too.

He resisted the urge to scratch at his arms; he thought, with such an undivided attention, Ryou would call him out on it. Instead he let his emotions vaporize in the cool emptiness that burrowed in his thoughts. Ryou laid his hand upon Bakura's arm, peering up into his face as if trying to pry the information telepathically from his mind.

Bakura jerked his arm away: an automatic reflex as the cuts ignited flaming trails. He found a spark of anger, the one lone source of rage that consumed him in the past months, and latched onto it. "Tell me why you're so screwy with food," he barked out.

Ryou's eyes lit with a strange emotion for him; then his expression fell. The calmness that normally stared at Bakura returned to Ryou's face. Without a word spoken, Ryou stood stiffly, and left the room. Bakura sat, alone in the living room.

After a moment, after he figured Ryou wouldn't deign to return, he dug out a single razor blade. He flipped it between his thumb and forefinger, marveling at the cool feel of the thin metal against skin. He cut into his wrist, and the thin skin parted easily under the blade. By the time the sting washed away his stress and blood dotted the surface of his skin with little beads, the blade felt warm to the touch, a comforting temperature.

…

The weeks passed slowly, the weather turning humid as the rains finally halted. Bakura shrugged on his winter uniform, yet again. Because Domino High School had switched from winter to summer uniforms, which was supposedly a mandatory switchover, but Bakura never much regarded institutionalized rules (he found himself in extra cleaning duties because of it), nor could he bare his cut up arms, not with the increased frequency and severity of his cutting, so he suffered through the indignity of extra housekeeping. Though as time passed, even Kobayashi relaxed his strictness in regards to uniforms, or he merely gave up reprimanding Bakura, who chose to remain indifferent.

Bakura strode out of the apartment long before Ryou exited the toilet. He just could not deal with Ryou's blatant half truths and lies when he mocked his eating habits. His chest swelled and his sped walk in an aimless direction. When he finally stopped, somewhat under control of his faculties, Bakura blinked at the familiar park near the Kame Game Shop. The little boy from last few times time wasn't there. Bakura dragged himself to the shaded part of the park, away from mothers with young children on the playground.

Lately, he found his feet leading him here whenever he couldn't cope with blades or the stress got too much to handle. Which, more and more, tended to be on a regular basis. Many afternoons after cleaning duty or when he knew he wouldn't be interrupted by the Pharaoh or his minions, he wandered the fifteen minutes up here. Underneath the trees, in the cool shade from the July sun, Bakura felt control return to him. Even the constant humidity faded away. And, was it ever muggy and hot.

After walking the extra quarter mile out of his way, Bakura was sweltering in the late July heat, especially in his winter uniform. He was half tempted to roll up his sleeves. At the very least, he removed his outer coat (which served as extra coverage between the white uniform shirt, which could very easily be stained by a reopened cut, and his arm.

Arms crossed, eyes closed, head resting against the tree trunk, Bakura could finally breather easy without the sharp sting brought by dragging a razor across his skin. Even that lately, with his increased cutting, was not so much effective. In fact, sometimes, it just plain hurt. Even the pain could not shatter the icy numbness that encroached him or quell the boiling, licking anger that made him want to bash his head against the wall and warped his vision.

"Bakura?" A calm, familiar but odd, voice broke the first true silence in his thoughts in a long while. He cracked an eye, before glaring as he recognized the Pharaoh looming over him.

"Fuck?!" He exclaimed, wrapping his coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves before he could get a good look at the white fabric or the few cuts that might be visible. 'What do you want?" he asked whilst exhaling, all of his anger stretched thin with Ryou's fiasco.

Yami peered into Bakura's eyes, his own eyes narrowed with concern? Bakura must be mistaken. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine!" Bakura snapped. He crossed his arms tighter, letting the fresh marks rub painfully against two layers of fabric, and pretended the stinging made him feel calmness, rather than just more pain.

"Are you su…" Yami started to say something, but cut himself off at the red that flushed Bakura's face and the arm that unfurled to scrub at his eyes. Instead, Yami sat next to Bakura underneath the tree in the almost deserted park as most of the inhabitants walked from one end to the other to their destinations.

A long moment passed. Bakura uncurled and curled his fist, fighting with himself. He frowned at the grass on the ground, basking in the welcome silent company of the Pharaoh. Any company that wasn't actively destroying their health and bodies was pleasant at this point.

"He's making himself sick."

"Excuse me?" Yami rose to his feet at once and resumed staring into Bakura's face from where he stood, looking down.

"You heard me." Bakura glared to the ground, refusing to meet Yami's eyes, refused to give him the information he wanted. If the Pharaoh wanted to know about Ryou, he could fucking ask Ryou.

Yami grabbed Bakura's arm to wrench him from the ground. Bakura let out a low scream. "What the fuck, Pharaoh!" He winced as various cuts flared pain up and down his arm. He summoned the very dredges of his will power not to reveal how much pain he was in or the origin of the pain.

"Bakura," Yami said, not aware of Bakura's violent reaction, "Remember that psychology lesson? This is very important. You need to talk to someone about this."

Bakura's hatred for the pharaoh returned full force, reopening the deep chasm between the two. Like volcanic settlements spewing in every which way, Bakura filled the chasm with a long stream of insults and epithets denouncing Yami. "Just fuck off, okay!? You and Yugi and you're other little fucking monkeys can dick with it, okay? I don't fucking care!"

Wiping spittle from his lips, Bakura stalked off in the opposite direction, choosing to return to the apartment in favor of following everyone to school and continuing the never ending marionette play of contentment.

Yami's face burned with his rage at Bakura's words, but as the thief wiped at his mouth in the same way he had wiped the tears from his eyes when he had first sat on the ground next to him, Yami's eyes widened as an epiphany of sorts settled over him. Bakura was long out of earshot, when Yami whispered, "But you do care."

…

A/N: Aw look, the first true instance of Bakura and Yami. And the last thing I wrote before I got injured. Which is just a fun fact. It's fun reading through/expanding each chapter and remembering what I was doing for each chapter. The rest of the chapters were written while I was completely drugged out on pain pills over a span of two weeks max.

The information Bakura learned from Ryou is all true, except the last bit that threats of self harm must be reported. I don't know if that's true, but I can't imagine it wouldn't be… In 1998, Japan's suicide rate increased by 35 percent, so I bet there was a bit of a panic there. In '98 in the United States, self injury was still confused with suicide attempts (it still is), so I think if any teacher discovered Bakura's cutting, Solomon would be informed.

Age of majority in Japan is 20, while in the US it is 18 (and the UK is 16? Unless they changed that?), and you have to be18 to get a driver's license, so imagine Bakura as a 15 year old. Haha.

Mokuba's birthday is July 7th, which worked perfectly with my plot. Fantastic. Why didn't I mention this last chapter? Kaiba hosted the party especially late (on the 19th), because of his work obligations, and because the 1998 calendar disliked my plot.


	12. Intervention of the Worst Kind

A/N: Look, it's an update! Let's call this a Christmas gift. I don't really know how to explain my lengthy absence. I don't feel any reason is a good enough reason for falling off the face of the planet. I can't even promise for sure when the next update will be, because the chapter isn't even half done. I will do my best to not disappear again. I just need to get over the hurdle of the next few chapters, then the plot propels forward. I'm hoping I can shrug off the writer's block from hell.

I found this chapter especially triggering. Thought I would put a trigger warning, in case.

Chapter 12: Intervention of the Worst Kind

Afternoon found Bakura once again laying face down on his bed, absent mindedly scratching at his arm. He didn't possess enough ambition to actively harm himself, but the scratching distorted the chattering voices in the main sitting room of the apartment. He breathed out against the heavy accusations that were thrown at Ryou from his former host's friends, referring to his eating disorder.

Bakura's lips curled upwards as the term 'eating disorder' lurked around his thoughts. Even through his partly closed door, Joey's and Tristan's voices reached his ears, increasing the pounding in his head. He inched his hand further up his sleeve as the diatribe continued. He imagined Ryou cowering in the corner, letting his supposed friends bounce accusations off him. Bakura's frown lessoned at the thought.

"You need to talk with someone. Your therapist, your father, anyone," Tea's voice floated into Bakura's room as he half listened to the words that didn't make perfectly clear sense.

Joey butt into Tea's concerned lecture; Bakura anticipated Joey physically inserting himself in to the middle at the same time, pushing Tea back a few paces as he leaned directly into Ryou's face. "You can't be hurting yourself because of him. He isn't worth it, you know?" At this, Bakura scowled, finally digging into his uniform pocket (having never bothered to change after he blew off school earlier).

"Joey!" Yugi gasped.

"He's not wrong," Tristan agreed with Joey's previous proclamation; Bakura tipped the card upside down. A perfectly sharp blade landed in his waiting palm. "He doesn't care about you at all," Bakura assumed the last sentiment was directed to Ryou.

"Guys, really. I'm fine," Ryou said and Bakura stared up into the small circle notches in the blade as he envisioned Ryou holding his hands out, palms up, in a pleading gesture his host was so fond of. "And Bakura's fine. We all are, really."

"Not buying it," Tristan said with a note of finality.

A clinking of something glass against the table, then Tea spoke in a low voice Bakura struggled to hear, "Ryou." She spoke his name with a practiced familiarity, revealing the kind of friendship Yugi, Tea, Tristan, Joey, and Ryou had. Bakura's chest tightened. He twirled one little blade in his hand, between thumb and forefinger while wearily glancing at the cracked bedroom door. "We've noticed you have been tired lately, and pale, and just ill looking. We're worried."

Bakura snorted at the clichéd speech, continuing to twist the blade between his fingers, the repetitious motion calmed the surging anxiety threatening to suffocate him.

"I think what Tea means is we're worried the stress of our spirits returning might've caused a relapse…" Bakura clenched his fist around the blade at Yugi's words, at the implication behind Yugi's words. He hissed at the biting sting.

Ryou attempted another round of protesting, but was quickly silenced by Joey. "No, you aren't okay, Ryou. I was there, remember. I know this. Stop lying!" A loud bang, most likely Joey's fist connecting with the coffee table, erupted.

The entire apartment went quiet except for the sounds of muffled gasps, similar to the sounds Bakura heard between Ryou's choking vomiting. He unfurled his own fist, revealing the blade and a stinging nick on the palm of his hand. A small bead of red bubbled up along the cut.

He glanced at the door once more and nearly jumped out of his skin as two sets of violet eyes met his own. He quickly palmed the blade, heart racing in his chest, surely audible to Marik and Yami.

"What the fuck!?" he cried, drowning out the newest intervention speech courtesy Yugi's friends. Marik pushed open the door all the way, letting himself in Bakura's room. Yami followed slowly behind. As Marik approached the bed, Bakura discreetly shoved the card out of sight, and placed his hand flat against the sheets, blade tucked beneath the bed and his hand.

"What're you looking at?" Marik asked. He sat on the bed and Bakura's heart leapt into his throat.

He snarled nastily, "Nothing!"

Yami stood near the bed. He slowly bounced back and forth, from one foot to the other. Every so often, he ran a hand through his hair. "What was in your hand?"

Bakura swallowed bile that rose in his throat. "None of your business, Pharaoh." He resisted the temptation to fold his arms over his chest, even as the blade's sharp edge, cutting into the skin of his palm as he pressed harder on the bed, served as a reminder.

"What's your problem?" Marik leaned forward as he questioned Bakura. He reached to grab at Bakura's arm, the one covering the razor blade. In one fell sweep, Bakura scooped up the blade (fisted with ends of his sheets), and punched Marik with his other hand. Both Marik and Yami jumped back.

"What the hell?" Marik clutched his nose with both hands. He whipped his head round and threw Bakura a dirty look. "What was that for!?"

Sheet and blade still curled in his opposing fist, Bakura stood trembling by the bed. He raised his free hand and pointed towards the door. "Get out," he said in an eerily flat voice.

"Bakura?" Yami paused at the doorway with Marik at his feet.

"Get out! Go away!" Bakura yelled. The two rushed from the room; Bakura slammed the door behind them. He leaned against the door, locking it in one motion.

He let the sheet fall to a crumple on the floor, slackening his grip on the blade. He exhaled against the biting throbbing in his palm, as Yami's and Marik's quizzical tones floated underneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

Ryou's tearful voice reached Bakura's ears as the two unwelcome guests walked away from his closed door, presumably into the living room to join the intervention. "Look, I'm fine," Ryou said finally, in a voice choked with emotion. Bakura pictured Ryou was staring determinedly at a far wall, arms crossed, refusing to meet any of his friends' eyes.

A soft noise, then the sound of the apartment door lock unhinging and the slight groaning of the door, caught Bakura's attention as he settled on his bare mattress. "Thank you for worrying about me. I appreciate your concern," Ryou said, his tone steady. He did not speak rudely nor insist the intervention thing was a bust, but his voice conveyed that solemnity.

Muffled sounds of everyone leaving, sans Bakura and Ryou, filled the living room, until finally, the apartment was silent.

Bakura swallowed, spittle slicking the back of his throat. Between the intrusive thoughts of what Marik and Yami, those two idiots, might have seen and the sounds of Ryou's feet padding across the linoleum in the kitchen (the squeak of the fridge door opening, and after a long moment, closing; the muffled clanking of dishes and the scraping of metal against china…), Bakura found himself flipping the blade, still grasped between his fingers, around so the sharp edge faced outwards.

He gulped down bile at the sound of silence, or rather, forced silence. Bakura sank to his knees against the pressure of everything (the absence of food wrappers crinkling, the lack of repetitive scraping of spoon against bowl, no small curses as Ryou fumbled with one of the sets of chopsticks: all these sound muted behind doors). He rolled up his sleeve to cut again into his forearm.

Then, he paused. Adding another cut to his arm, after the Pharaoh saw—or might have seen—was akin to tempting fate. He slackened his grip on the blade, gently coaxing it from his skin, leaving a tiny indent that would disappear after a few moments. No, he shouldn't be cutting himself, especially if they…

Ryou's door, across the hall from his, squeaked as Ryou opened it; sounds Bakura hadn't missed returned. Ryou walked to the kitchen, the clang of dishes deposited in the sink, the opening and closing of the fridge yet again; after a few moments, the sounds stilled again as Ryou closed himself in his bedroom.

Bakura glared down at the razor blade in his hand and at the rapidly fading indent on his arm. Fuck it, he thought as he brought the blade to his skin again. Why did he care what the idiot Pharaoh and his newest lapdog thought? It shouldn't matter to him. The equally repulsed expressions on everyone's faces as he scratched bleeding welts into his arm publically not more than an hour after his impromptu return to this world floated at the surface of his memories.

He grit his teeth, and tugged the blade across his flesh. The searing pain let him know he had cut deep enough. And, the blood rising to the surface of the cut reaffirmed his choice. It was his arm he chose to cut up. It wasn't—and shouldn't—be anyone's business but his own.

Yet as he dabbed toilet paper on the cut, he knew his arms would be covered with long sleeves, whether it be his uniform shirt or the baggy tee shirts he had taken to wearing.

…

Orange light filtered into Bakura's room, casting distorted patches along the walls and Bakura's bed. He glanced down at the Change of Heart card, with the blades tucked securely behind the card, on his freshly, half-assed made bed, the under sheet tucked hastily into each of the four corners and the top sheet and comforter crumpled in a messy heap in the corner.

He set the card on his side table, even as the sounds of Ryou retching and gasping filled his ears. The intervention seemed to help _oh so_ much. Helped by causing multiple rounds of puking and eating after all Ryou's friends had left, Bakura thought. His arm ached underneath the fabric of his tee shirt, an ache reminiscent of the odd swelling sensation in his chest.

"You're destroying yourself," he muttered to the empty room and the steadily sinking sun, the gold light bouncing off the walls made his vision blurry as he lay down on the sheets, cradling his head in his arms.

Yep, the intervention had gone over fantastically, Bakura seethed in his mind. After a long while, the vomiting stopped, and Bakura prayed this would be the last round for the day. Whatever was going on with Ryou, it was getting worse. In hindsight, Bakura didn't think it had been so bad when he possessed him in his quest for the Millennium Items. Surely he would have felt it in Ryou's body; hell, he was exhausted just listening to the cycle.

Eat. Puke. Eat. Puke. Eat more. Puke more. Eat yet again. Puke. So on, so forth.

He flopped on his back as the toilet flush filled the apartment, scrubbing at his eyes as the kitchen door squeaked and fridge opened.

…

On the very last day of school before summer break, Bakura found himself crowded by the members of Yugi's friendship group as they huddled near Ryou's desk, which sat adjacent to his. The last remnant of summer rains kept everyone inside the classroom for lunch.

Bakura shifted at the increase in humidity due to the cluster of Yugi's friends. He bent over his lunch before anyone could call him out on his discomfort. Even Ryou had begun to question his multiple layer, long sleeved uniform preference this close to summer break. The Pharaoh had finally agreed with the native Japanese that it was too bloody hot, and donned short sleeves inside and outside of school.

Yugi pointed his chopsticks in the general direction of the group as he spoke animatedly about the various activities he planned to partake in over break. When the mention of a dueling tournament came up, Bakura felt a buzzing on his neck. Lifting his eyes minutely, he became aware of multiple sets of eyes on him. He glanced up and growled, "What?"

He found himself on the opposite end of Yugi's chopsticks. "Grandpa's store is hosting a local tournament in a few weeks. We thought you might like…" At Bakura's mounting glower, Yugi's words dribbled off into obscurity.

"There's no reason for you to act like this," Yami interjected. He placed a hand on Yugi's shoulder, throwing the smaller boy a soft smile. "You've dueled in past tournaments. It was a fair suggestion."

Bakura remembered those tournaments far too well, especially Battle City, which he had snuck into, making the top eight. Or the incident in Duelist Kingdom: one of his first encounters with the spirit of the millennium puzzle. And he had lost both miserable times; hell, he was obliterated in his table top challenge. He ignored the feelings of inadequacy that made his cheeks flame. He bit the inside of his cheek.

He crossed his arms and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joey rest a hand on Ryou's shoulder. Ryou looked up, eyes brightening as he rejoined the conversation from whatever distant thoughts he had been in. "You want to enter a tournament, Ryou?"

Ryou shook his head at Joey, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not very good at dueling myself. I prefer table top RPGs."

"I remember that." Tea leaned across Ryou's desk. "Have you made any new layouts recently?"

"Um, no. I haven't had time, so much…" Ryou looked down at his clasped hands.

"Really?" Tristan cocked an eyebrow, his face tight with accusations. Ryou blushed, dipping his head further. "You were working on one not long ago. Usually you're all over 'em at this point."

Since he had rematerialized in this world, Bakura hadn't noticed Ryou putting together a table top game once. Though, if he recalled correctly, his room once held the materials for them. He wondered where they were now. Possibly Ryou's room, he thought.

"I, I don't know. I'm just not interested. Anyway, tell me about the tournament. Are you entering Yami?" Ryou shifted the group's attention to Yami, who stepped back slightly and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment as he found himself the center of attention.

"King of Games versus King of Games. That would be epic!" Joey nearly shouted, having forgotten his concern about Ryou.

"I would love to watch that," chimed Tristan. Bakura snorted. Idiots, he thought to himself.

"I haven't decided if I want to participate," Yami said finally, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

Tea glanced at Yami, her eyebrows slightly raised in the center. "Why not? You love dueling."

"I do." Yami said. "I just haven't decided. That's all. It's a big commitment." Bakura watched the once great Pharaoh seem to shrink into himself as Tea, intuitively, continued onto more neutral topics, until finally the awkwardness shrugged away.

…

After school let out for summer break, Bakura exited his room after changing from his uniform to more casual long sleeved button up shirt and jeans, and entered the kitchen amidst chaos. Bakura caught his hand, slamming his open palm against the open doorway for the small apartment kitchen, as he witnessed the horror unfold in front of him. The door closed as much as it could behind him, forcing himself into the room. Ryou, on his knees, kneeled in front of the open refrigerator, hoisting leftover containers in the crook of his arm as he bent, hair covering his face, over a large, plastic, yellow bowl.

He scooped large spoonfuls of—Bakura assumed—raw dough into his mouth, somewhere beneath his drooping strands of hair. Bakura's knees trembled as Ryou finished off the batter, coaxed another container into his hand, and proceeded to shovel the remains of a noodle dish in his mouth with the same metal spoon. He felt himself slip, before regaining his balance, smacking the wall with his hand in the process.

This time, Ryou glanced up, looking akin to a pathetic loyal-to-the-end mutt waiting on its master, all shrunken and curled in on himself, encasing the leftovers. But, it was his eyes, the look of sheer desperation, the dead eyes of a deer that made him choke out the words, "What are you doing to yourself?"

The containers fell against the floor, not like in the movies where the accused runs off, flinging dishes and general cookware amuck and responds with heavy defensive ranting, but something more real. Ryou's arms sagged to his sides; in the same moment, the containers slipped from the crook of his elbow, some landing upright, some still securely closed, some spilling food on the floor, on Ryou's lap.

He gazed at Bakura with lifeless eyes, ignoring the wreckage of sauce soaked vegetables threatening to stain his school uniform. "I thought you were still out," he said in a voice as eerily calm as his eyes. At Bakura's jaw dropping and eyes widening, at the horrified expression, he laughed. "I was hungry, Bakura. I'm eating. Tell Joey that I'm eating. Can you do that Bakura?" Ryou's voice rose, the tinny shrillness, like glass shattering, grated Bakura's ears.

Bakura's legs gave up the battle, collapsing underneath him. His palm stung as it dragged against the wooden entryway, surely leaving small nicks and slivers. Ryou laughed again, at Bakura's silence. He shoved one of the upended containers with a hand, hurling a slimy brown mess towards Bakura. "Tell them I eat Bakura, please."

"Why?" The question slipped out before Bakura could stop it.

Ryou's eyes shined. For the first time in the past few minutes, his expression shifted to something cognizant, something human. Tear shimmered at the edges of his eyes, catching on individual eyelashes. "Because you don't care." Ryou blinked, freeing tears to snake down his face.

Bakura was on his feet, grabbing Ryou by the polo collar of his summer uniform shirt and flinging him against the open fridge; Ryou gasped, blinking madly, more tears leaking. He pressed his face into Ryou's and snarled. Ryou squirmed against the chill from the fridge. "Idiot host," he uttered a name he hadn't said in months out of habit. "Of course I, fucking, care!"

He leered in closer, touching noses with Ryou and feeling some of the frigid cold, "I care about you, for fuck's sake!" He dropped Ryou, letting the boy sag against the shelves of the fridge, still blinking out tears.

A/N:

I don't think there's much to say. The Japanese school summer is about a month long, usually for the month of August. It depends on the region of Japan how long/when exactly summer falls, but the average is a month, so I'm going with it. And don't you know, Bakura has a busy summer coming. Heheh.

Ryou's eating disorder isn't going to be magically cured, but it isn't going to be this prominent for a long time again, if you all are getting sick of it (I know I'm getting sick of trying to write it). If you have any questions about his eating disorder, feel free to ask. If it is not relevant to the plot, I'll answer.


	13. What Happens After

Chapter 13: What Happens After

Bakura collapsed onto his bed after shutting and locking his door. He held the Change of Heart card with protector between his thumb and palm letting it rest flat. Stroking at the flimsy plastic, he refused to let thoughts of Ryou's awful disposition enter his mind, attempting in vain to erase the sunken in brown eyes, murky and reflecting nothing, the— Tipping the card over, releasing one of the razor blades, he banished the thought before it could form, adding more crushing weight to his chest or the battery acid pooling in his stomach. He exhaled as he raised the blade within his fingers to make the first cut.

He whipped against air as he made a slicing motion with the blade. He furrowed his brows, and proceeded to cut his arm proper. Once more, he sliced at the air a few millimeters above his arm. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Bakura placed the sharp edge of the blade on his arm. The blade indented his arm. He sucked in a breath, and exhaled as he cut, digging the blade into his arm. A pointed, focused pain spliced on his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at the newest cut, a small knick, equivalent to a nasty paper cut, and sighed as bright beads of blood bubbled up around the red line.

He cut again, this time on the first attempt, another small incision, another red line. He grit his teeth (flashes of Ryou choking down whatever leftover his hands hurriedly grasped, spoonfuls, one after another, hair falling limply into the container soaking up the saucy remnants, and still he…), and pressed harder with the blade, dragging it quickly, rougher, deeper through his skin. He felt pain: his eyes widened at the heat pooled along his arm, a muddled deep purple puddle, he tensed his arm, sending a trickle of bright red down the side of his arm, his lips curved upwards as every thought wiped clean from his head as he could only think of the immediate problem.

Bakura flicked his arm back, all the while watching a droplet of blood cling against the bottom of his arm, as another rivulet of blood trickled down the other side of his arm, never quite intersecting the other. He flopped back against the headboard, staring up at his arm and the thin tracks snaking red tributaries. His eyes slowly closed, and when he awoke the next morning to a knocking on his door, he never recalled falling asleep.

…

A soft knocking reverberated in his ears long before he awoke, sounding akin to his alarm clock in that it jarred him from sleep in the most obnoxious manner possible. Bakura cracked an eye, gazing around the room sleepily. Out of habit, he shrugged his sleeve down over his injured arm. A pause in the knocking caught his attention, as he cottoned on to what the intrusive noise meant. Stumbling out of bed, he kicked the card with the blades under his half on, half off comforter, and crossed the room to unlock the door.

He greeted Ryou with a glare, no amount of throbbing under his sleeve could make him forget or forgive the scene he witnessed in the kitchen. He swallowed the thought, opening his door wider to allow Ryou entrance, and then sat down on his bed, arms crossed, foot securely placed in front of the buried card.

Bakura merely lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Ryou to speak. Ryou sat on the bed gingerly; he raised his eyes—which resembled room temperature syrup, warm and inviting—and stared into Bakura's eyes as if searching for the meaning of life in Bakura's irises. Bakura narrowed his eyes, and Ryou flushed, but refused to look away.

After a long moment, Ryou muttered, "You're right."

Bakura, jolted out of his thoughts, the ever pressing fear someone would notice a razor blade or cut or stain on his sleeve, the swollen, irritated awareness of his eyelids as they blinked against dry, tired eyes, the odd sensation of blood still dribbling down his arm, even under the sleeve, amidst caked on remnants of the night prior, barked, "Excuse me?" Even his throat, scratchy from disuse, conveyed his exhausted state.

Luckily Ryou did not notice, rather he held his gaze at Bakura's eyes, and Bakura took note of the glazed over appearance as Ryou glanced at nothing. Ryou blinked, eyes focusing, becoming sharper with clarity. "You're right Bakura. I-I'm sorry."

"Fuck are you talking about?" Bakura snarled, ever argumentative as he tried to ignore the rising surge of emotion lightening the knot in his chest, reassuring him in a way cutting could not. "I never said a thing."

Ryou shook his head. "You didn't have to. I have a problem." He glanced out the window, eyes glazing over again. "I know that." His lips trembled, one hand coming to rest on his chest, squeezing lightly at the shirt, fingers pressing into the flesh underneath.

Bakura startled when the extra weight left the bed, knocking him off balance. Ryou stood above him. He placed a hand on Bakura's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said softly, before exiting the room. Bakura reached up, touching the still warm spot with his finger tips. He caressed the fabric as the lingering warmth was replaced with his own body heat.

…

It was late afternoon before Bakura ceased staring at the closed door Ryou had exited earlier and realized his shirt sleeve continued to stick to his arm, the blood crusted fabric to flesh. He cringed against the sensation as he wrenched the material from his arm. He tugged on another long sleeve shirt from a pile of designated clean clothes from the floor, and pulled open his bedroom door to make his first appearance of the day.

He stepped into the living room to the unusual site of Ryou nibbling on a carrot. He ate with precise miniscule bites, and Bakura tried to yank his gaze away, instinctively realizing that his lingering stare wouldn't help, and headed into the kitchen to make himself something more substantial than a carrot.

…

Useless. The thoughts echoed in his head as he stomped against the rhythm of the voice whispering his constant failings. Bakura walked the length of a block, circling Ryou's apartment. He mashed his teeth together, clamping his jaw shut against the bile coating the back of his throat. He made a face and swallowed more traces of the bitter coating in his mouth. He raged with each foot, stamping in the oppressing August heat. He was seething, raving pissed, and for the life of him, he could not figure out why.

A couple days, the first few days of summer break, passed in the same monotonous awkwardness. Bakura rarely saw Ryou, even in the enclosed apartment, and when they did mingle, their interactions were stifled and disjointed, revealing nothing. Every so often, Bakura witnessed Ryou eating something small, a piece of fruit or toast, and breathed out a sigh of relief when he didn't run for a toilet immediately after. Though those peaceful, almost plebian in their normality, moments were interspersed with Bakura scratching at his most recent cuts, while over hearing Ryou making himself sick or Ryou declining to eat with Bakura.

Nothing in the past week, even the small instances of Ryou's caving to his eating disorder was enough to explain the mounting, seemingly uncontrollable rage bellowing up with in him. So, he had thrown on his tennis shoes, and called out some clipped remark, a minor warning for Ryou not to follow him. And, he walked. Round and round the apartment, steps growing angrier as he crushed his shoes into the pavement.

The familiar burning on his arm told him what he craved, what would make everything go away—if only temporarily with the entrancement of blood running down his arms, or the comfortable stinging on the inside of his arms.

He curled his hands into fists. That wasn't exactly a fucking option. Not really certain why cutting was not an option, but something, some incessant nagging voice in his head ruled out that alternative, so Bakura paced around the same city block, going nowhere, luckily recognizing no one, and tried to walk off the awful feeling.

He had no reason, none whatsoever, to be so angry. Ryou had eaten! Albeit half a pomegranate and a piece of toast, before binning the other half with claims it was out of season, but he had eaten. Still, as his insides melted into molten liquid, Bakura removed himself from the noxious situation before his own stupidity made things worse. Eyebrows furrowed, gaze hovering no further than a few paces in front of his feet, Bakura almost didn't notice the sudden presence of leather flats in his path.

His eyes narrowed further and he prepared a retort to whomever was idiotic enough to cross him when he already felt like pounding the living shit out of anyone—himself included. Bakura jerked his head up, narrowly colliding with the worse possible person.

"Pharaoh." A short statement, cold and ground out through layers of hatred.

Yami stood in the middle of the sidewalk, bare arms dangled lazily as he shot Bakura an inquisitive look. "What are you doing?"

The retort slid out of his lips on pure instinct. "Nothing that concerns you." He crossed his arms and glowered.

Yami's own eyes narrowed, and Bakura smirked gleefully at the prospect of making the poor bastard feel a little bit like he did. "Actually, it does concern me, thief. Unless you've forgotten the incident of you punching Marik?"

The condensation, the absolute dripping superiority awakened the bottomless rage in Bakura. "Fuck you, you bastard. Did he set you up with this? Too fucking pathetic to show up on his own?" Each word uttered raised in pitch and shrillness, until, by the end, Bakura was screaming in the middle of the street, drawing attention from the neighbors—not that he ever bothered or concerned himself with them.

He stormed off. That quiet voice niggling at him to not release his anger upon the sharp edge of the blade had long since dissipated in a desperate screaming to make it all go away. Searing pain as Yami yanked at his arm, pulling him back, flared up as a low scream. Bakura watched a strange expression crinkle Yami's holier-than-though upraised nose, but the expression cleared before Bakura could process what it meant. Instead he focused on the pain as Yami's fingers curled on the newest cut. Over a week old, and still tender as the day he had sliced into his arm after catching Ryou bent over the yellow plastic bowl…

He wrenched his arm free and crossed them to his chest out of instinct. The sudden jolt of pain brought his temper crashing to the floor, and he sucked in a ragged breath. He stared at Yami, no longer boiling pissed, rather, leveled at his usual decibel of annoyance, and regarded the former Pharaoh with a small smirk. "Tell Marik to deal with his own problems, rather than depending on his precious Pharaoh."

Bakura turned and walked away, back to the apartment. He sucked in lungfuls of air as his heart rate slowed to its normal pace and the anger dissolved into a minor ache in the back of his skull. The only memory of the incurable rage from earlier.

Yami watched Bakura stalk away. His face twisted into something odd as a foreign emotion racked at him. He had intended to visit Ryou, perhaps try to talk to him once more, but then Bakura had nearly barreled into him. He set aside his straying thoughts. After all, Bakura wasn't who he promised to see today, especially for Joey's and Tristan's sake. He followed Bakura's footsteps back to the apartment shared by the two, lingering slightly behind the thief.

Bakura jammed his index finger in the elevator button to close himself in, when a tanned hand slid between the closing doors and the elevator opened to reveal Yami. Bakura scowled. "You're following me?"

"No," Yami enunciated the syllable a bit too harshly. So that was a confirmation. "I'm visiting Ryou."

Bakura curled up in the corner of the elevator and watched the lights slowly brighten upward to the eighth floor. "Good for you."

When the elevator opened on his floor, Bakura walked out, into the hallway, and let himself in the apartment. Yami quickly grabbed the door before it could slam in his face and entered behind Bakura, who marched through the living room soundlessly and closed himself into one of the rooms further past. He blinked then greeted Ryou, who glanced up from a book he was reading as he lay sprawled in an armchair.

…

Near the weekend, Bakura flicked through channels on the television, never really catching on to modern interest in the brightly lit box, listening to Ryou on the phone with one of his friends. Bakura sneered at the thought (the stupid Pharaoh's impromptu visit and intervention monologue earlier in the week had been hellish enough; why Ryou bothered with the idiots, he wondered), and propped his feet on the coffee table. From the dining room wall, where the home phone was boxed, Ryou shot Bakura a warning look, a small frown and squinted eyes. Bakura shrugged, neglecting to remove his feet. He smirked at Ryou's head shake and exhaled breath.

"No, sorry Joey. That wasn't about—" Ryou ran a finger through his long hair, before fisting the tips and pulling roughly as the conversation seemed to shift. Bakura glanced over, more interested in their conversation than the idiots on television hosting another cheesy cooking competition. "I'm fine," Ryou said, enunciating both words as Bakura noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a close up of a contestant shoveling ramen in his mouth. His stomach clenched at the ironic imagery.

"Really, I. No." Ryou cast his gaze at the floor. A small sigh, then he spoke again, in the same quiet apologetic tone he had spoken to Bakura a few mornings ago, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to get so bad again."

There was a longer pause, where Bakura could hear the righteous anger in Joey's tone through the phone line. So it was attempt three to make Ryou better. Yeah, that was doomed from the start. Ryou barely mentioned his eating habits to Bakura, though Bakura was very aware of them thanks to the close proximity they shared. He had been trying to eat more, Bakura had noticed, but he didn't think much of the phone call and Joey's and Tristan's pathetic attempt, until Ryou blushed and placed a hand to his cheeks, murmuring a reply. "I will. I need to call Father."

Even from his spot on the couch, Bakura heard the inclusion of Tristan's voice as both he and Joey must've screamed into the phone, "Well go do that!" Ryou hung up after a few rounds of traditional pleasantries. Bakura flicked his gaze back at the television as Ryou sat on the other end of the couch, joining him. The two sat on the couch, watching a half hour of mindless game show television in an oddly comforting silence. Finally, chewing on his thumbnail, Ryou hoisted himself off the couch, and grabbed his mobile phone from the wall, disconnecting it from its charger.

He flipped the phone open, dialing a number from memory, slowly making his way towards his room as he spoke. "Hi, Dad." He tapped his fingers on the wall as he walked into the short hallway, which provided rooms for Ryou, his father on the spare times he visited, and Bakura, plus the bathroom.

He halted walking suddenly. "Yes, sorry for calling so early. I wanted to call before I lost the nerve…"

Bakura could just make out the sound of Ryou's father. Even through the tinny speakers, he could hear the concern and compassion. Ryou spoke in small voice, effectively cutting of his father's worried diatribe as he turned the knob on his bedroom door. "…I think I need help…"

Whatever Ryou said after that was muffled by the closing of his bedroom door. Bakura settled himself deeper into the couch cushions and laughed harshly at one of the ridiculous gags on the television show.

A/N: Hmm the chapters are getting easier to write. Along the way, I set a goal of 100,000 words minimum for this story, so each chapter has to get close to 3000 words (which is double most of what I wrote this summer). Basically I'm creating new plots. Bakura's summer break plot is solid, so the next few chapters, aside from real life obligations, should be out quicker less than, say, three months' time. I don't know how university is going to affect my writing schedule, but we'll see?

Ryou's phone call to his Dad happens about noon in Japan, and, in this story, Ryou's father is in Egypt, which their local time is about five AM, so Ryou's waking him up. Or so the little note I wrote to remind myself says so.


	14. Purging

A/N: Oh, god, die of shock guys: It's an update! I need to stop making promises I can't keep. Part of my issue with updating this is, quite frankly, I never want this story to end. It's my baby… And it's over 33% posted…

Chapter 14: Purging

"It was the right thing to do," Yami said, sitting down next to Bakura by the wall closest to the back door, behind the game shop, who bristled at the unwanted company. Bakura turned from staring at the far wall, ignoring the little "get together" at the Mouto's Ryou had dragged him to, to face Yami.

"What was?" he said, humoring Yami for his own amusement. He pulled his sleeves down, over his hands, subconsciously, fisting the material in his hands.

Yami looked pointedly at Ryou at the other end of the room by the couch, who was laughing at a joke told by Marik and retold by Joey, then back at Bakura. "He's happier."

Bakura curled his lips into a sneer. "He's not better." Which was true. The past week had settled down, and life in the Bakura apartment was calmer than it had been since before Bakura realized Ryou had an eating disorder, but every so often Ryou picked at his dinner, rather than ate it, or excused himself to the toilet. There were still mornings that Bakura woke to Ryou choking up food, throwing laws of nature into reverse.

"No," Yami said as he relaxed against the wall, causing Bakura to glower more intently at Yami's presence, hoping the implication he wanted to be left alone to sulk at his semi-forced interaction with Ryou's friends. "But he's getting there. He made an appointment with his therapist so it wouldn't get worse."

Bakura shrugged. As far as he could tell, Ryou's therapist was supposed to provide help for Ryou's weird eating; he wondered how Yami knew the mechanics behind therapy, but just scoffed. That information wasn't pertinent to him. He ignored the niggling stabs of guilt that knotted his stomach. Ryou was fine, so whatever. It was all good, all pretty and copacetic.

Bakura relaxed his fists when Yami returned to the majority of the group in the center of the Mouto's living room, letting his sleeves loosen to reveal the barest strip of his wrists. He stared blankly at the wall once more, contemplating his purpose in being here. He supposed he had promised Ryou. The boy had first frowned at him, a look Bakura was fast learning to distrust as actual nutrients in Ryou's body made him more clear headed, then smiled, urging him to tag along, "only for a short while." Idiot Pharaoh aside, at least the others had the decency to leave him in peace.

…

As Ryou's health gradually returned to him, his pallor radiant rather than pasty, his cheeks less swollen, and his clothes fitting better as he filled them out better as he gained the few kilos he desperately needed, Bakura felt terrible. He awoke most mornings with a headache and increasing throbbing on his arm. He gritted his teeth as he wrenched the fabric of his shirt sleeve from his arm one morning that was just barely morning and, in fact, almost noon.

The fabric clung to the cut on his arm and he ripped it away telling himself he should damn well be used to the pain. His eyes smarted as he took in the site of the most recent cut, from a couple weeks ago when he had caught Ryou in front of the fridge. The two smaller cuts had healed into flaky scabs, but the largest remained puffy and red, and swollen.

He swallowed against the rising bile. The cut had been deep, and with Ryou's impromptu presence the morning after, he never properly cleaned it, just changed shirts. When he finally cleaned it that night, in the bath, he gave up his fruitless attempt to remove all of the caked on blood on top of the cut. Now, a few weeks later, the cut had healed partially, in a raised, tender scar. He threw caution to the wind, poking at the cut, and yelped at the sudden, white hot, pain.

Ryou's voice floated under the door as he passed through. "You okay, Bakura?"

"I'm fine," he replied, quickly yanking his sleeve down.

Bakura left his room a few minutes later. His arm still burned and his head pounded at every miniscule noise. When the door opened and Yugi, Yami, and Marik greeted Ryou from his genkan, Bakura settled for dropping himself to the couch, any forlorn thoughts of consuming food forgotten. His stomach churned with nausea as the pain intensified by the guests' extra voices.

Ryou invited the group in, even providing house slippers for them. Bakura chose to prop his bare feet on the coffee table as a response to Ryou's general cleanliness. Ryou smiled brightly at him, and he glowered right back.

"Hello Bakura," Yugi said as he sat down on the couch, along with Yami and Marik. Ryou curled up on the chair, letting his slippers fall to the floor as he nestled in the oversize chair.

"Hi," Bakura said, crossing his arms. He bit back a grimace of pain as Yami and Ryou threw him worried looks. "What? I said hi." He sank back into the cushions, hoping the soft material would alleviate his headache. Damn, it was too early for this.

"Anyway," Ryou redirected their attention, "You guys never said why you were coming. I don't mind, of course." He smiled.

"We wanted to invite you to Grandpa's tournament," Yugi said. His eyes lit up brightly and he talked animatedly, waving his hands about. "I mean, formally." Yami presented Ryou with a sealed envelope with a crest of the Kame Game shop.

Ryou opened the envelope as Yugi continued to explain about the competition. "It's just a local tournament, and Grandpa's running it with a few other store owners, so there won't be any holograms or anything fancy like the last couple." He trailed off, but everyone in the room knew he meant the last few tournaments which had been held by Kaiba Corporation, a ruse by Seto Kaiba to achieve dueling victory against Yugi Mouto, or now, Yami Mouto. Yami hadn't actually entered any of the most recent dueling competitions, much to everyone's confusion and surprise.

Ryou glanced at the contents of the letter coupled with a general advertisement. He handed it back to Yugi. "I would love to come watch, but I'm not very good at dueling." He jerked his thumb at Bakura. "Besides he did all the dueling."

"That's right," Marik agreed. Bakura turned his hateful expression on his former ally. He leaned forwards, so he was looking directly into Bakura's glare. "I remember Battle City. You could've won, you know."

Bakura flushed from embarrassment rather than the sticky heat of August. He remembered Battle City too, and he did not like the direction this was going, especially when Yami's eyes softened as he glanced at Ryou, then Bakura. Surely everyone remembered he threw the duel for Ryou's sake.

"I'm not interested," he said when Yugi tried to hand him an envelope similar to Ryou's

Marik cocked his head. "Why not?"

Bakura sighed loudly, and Ryou jumped up from his curled position, ever the peace maker. "Oh I forgot; let me make some tea for everyone. Any suggestions?" He gave everyone a momentary glance as he waved his arm in the general direction of the kitchen.

After Ryou left to four heads shaking noncommittally, Bakura found himself at the mercy of the remaining three. "You're a good duelist," Marik continued.

Yami looked at Bakura with one of those sympathetic, knowing looks he could not stand. Even trying to look empathetic, the Pharaoh still looked high-and-mighty and mocking. Bakura chose to keep his current ugly sneer in place as Yami voiced his opinion. "There were many duels that you almost won. We were always challenged when dueling you."

"He's right," Yugi chimed.

Bakura stared resolutely at the kitchen entrance where he could see Ryou preparing tea and a selection of snacks, fruit wedges, crackers, and small candies. At their heavy stares and the subsequent mounting pressure in his head, Bakura snapped just as Ryou entered the room with the tea kettle and mugs in one hand and the snacks balanced on a single plate in the other, "I know I'm good. I'm just not interested!"

"Then why don't you participate?" Ryou asked as he arranged the tea kettle and mugs around the table. He began pouring tea into the mugs. "It could be fun." As he finished, he grabbed an apple wedge and bit it in half, the snap grating against Bakura's headache.

"Because I don't fucking want to," he snarled, gulping at the steaming hot liquid.

"Okay then," Ryou said calmly, still chewing on his apple slice. After a long moment he swallowed, a slightly discontent look twisted his face.

…

Bakura stretched his arms over his head, then winced and jerked his arms back to his sides as pain flared up along his covered forearm. He hissed; Ryou glanced over at him from the armchair he curled up in as the two watched some crappy game show on the television.

"You okay?" Ryou asked. Bakura flushed, realizing in that moment what had happened. He crossed his arms and glared in the direction of the television. Ryou tried again, "Bakura?"

"I'm fine," Bakura ground out, a horrible sinking in his stomach told him Ryou wasn't about to let it drop. "Must've bruised it or something," he muttered after a long minute under Ryou's gaze. The lack of puking and inclusion of food in Ryou's life made the boy more cognizant. The realization he would have to hide this better nagged at him.

Eventually Ryou's gaze slid back to the stupid game program, and Bakura closed himself in his room at the first opportunity that wasn't overly suspicious. He rolled up his sleeve after locking the door and looked down at the one festering cut. Later tonight, during his bath, he would properly clean that, but right now he needed to get rid of anything that gave away his cutting. Honestly, why hadn't he came to that conclusion sooner? He berated himself mentally as he stared over the contents of his room.

Once again, he was struck with the thought why should he bother hiding it? Somehow, without ever actually answering his own suppositions, he knew it was necessary, so he set to the task of purging his room. He slid open the second to top drawer of his dresser and dug a hand under the layer of clothes. Smiling grimly, Bakura plucked the plastic bits that had encased the razor blades in the trading card sleeve.

Those had been there since late March. He flung the leftover plastic in a random empty grocery bag, probably also from the first shopping trip in March. He glanced at his bed with a single cover sheet and comforter piled messily on top, the desk where he flung his uniform at most school days—how long had it been since the uniform or the bed sheets had been cleaned? His inability to remember a time disgusted him.

Bakura gathered the offending items and balled them in a pile by the door. He surveyed the litter of dirty and clean clothes on the floor. He picked them up a few at a time, and sniffed each article individually: clothes determined to be clean were tossed to the wall and the dirty pieces joined the comforter. Bakura peered under his bed on a whim, and hurriedly grabbed what lay under his bed.

Blood soaked paper towels, likely enough to fill a whole roll, had been swept under his bed, or dropped in the gap between the bed and the wall. That was definitely something Ryou would notice. He stuffed them into the bag. The bag was semi translucent, so the large quantity of towels dotted with varying drying blood was visible. He vowed to figure out a solution to that.

For now, he could probably pitch the bag in one of the trash bins at the park. Decision made, he stuffed the overly full bag into his school bag. This would be a pain, Bakura realized. The briefcase like bags required by the school didn't mask the extra addition. He sighed to himself and stashed everything back under the bed. Maybe, when, and if, he would deal with that later, sometime, tomorrow perhaps. The television in the living room had been silenced, probably turned off by Ryou, in the time he had been organizing the crap in his room. He heard the tinkering of dishes and his stomach rumbled. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, and realized Ryou was probably starting lunch.

He should go out there, offer to help, do something, but he remained behind his closed door, drowning in the uselessness he felt. Frankly, he didn't want to go out and help cook. Why would he? Ryou still obsessed over food, so whatever he served was in precise amounts and included stringently healthy foods—or the closest Ryou could achieve with frozen meals. It was no fun helping Ryou, but it was proper. And polite. And Bakura's insides churned with the knowledge he should budge up and just go do it.

He toyed with the Change of Heart card in his hands, flipping the card autonomously. When had he reached into his jeans pockets? A blade glinted at him from behind the card face. That was something he could do instead.

Bakura pushed himself up off the floor, and dragged himself and the pile of dirty laundry out near the kitchen where the washer was kept. Sure enough as he dumped the items in the washer, unconcerned if they were sorted or over the fill line, Ryou had lunch halfway done. He was preparing some vegetable heavy meat and rice dish.

He forced his voice to remain steady, and asked, "Want some help?" He swallowed down the urge to clear his throat.

Ryou glanced up from a sizzling pan filled with slowly cooking broccoli florets. "Sure." He pointed at the cutting board where a cucumber lay next to a knife. "Slice up the cucumber."

Bakura shrugged at the slight raise in Ryou's voice, the unasked inquiry. He still hesitated with asking for anything. Bakura resisted glowering at the obnoxious frightened kitten act, and washed his hands in the sink. He took great care not to lift his sleeves higher than the bottoms of his wrists.

"Normal slices?" He clarified, refusing to meet Ryou's gaze.

…

"What are you doing?" Joey's voice broke through Bakura's one track thoughts as he lugged the garbage bag from earlier, filled with wads of blood soaked paper towels, out the apartment doors. He scowled. He thought he had made it out worry free as Ryou locked himself in the bathroom to barf his lunch up in the toilet.

Ryou slipped away after chewing the last grain of rice; Bakura knew what he intended to do. If he was a better person, he would've mentioned something as Ryou gulped down two glasses of water with his meal. Maybe if he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts on how to sneak out an obviously rotund bag of cutting paraphernalia, he would've called Ryou out. He started therapy on Friday, on tomorrow. Bakura held ammunition to make Ryou hesitate… "A hand waved at his face, and Bakura's demeanor chilled to prevent any unintentional leakage of emotions Joey wasn't warranted to see, that no one should witness.

"What do you want?" he snarled. He hoisted the bag over a shoulder and stalked off, leaving the apartment behind. He stomped through the parking lot, leaving Joey behind to gape stupidly. Or that's what he hoped the idiot would do. Fate tortured him, Bakura thought, as a hand landed on his opposite shoulder. He stilled. He turned to face Joey reluctantly, more concerned about the nature of the contents enclosed by the black plastic. He ground out, "What?"

Joey rubbed the back of his head. "Who's chopped up in there?" he asked, with a nervous chuckle. He reached for the bag with his hands, but was cut off by Bakura flipping the bag further behind his back. "Seriously, what'ya have in there?"

"None of your concern," Bakura said.

Joey's eyes widened. "I'm going to check on Ryou."

Bakura smirked; a small bubbling of humor that the blond idiot would have to suffer with Ryou's purging this time. "You'll find he is indisposed." Bakura turned and continued to walk off the apartment property, a grin slipped on his face as he heard Joey's pace quicken as the other boy practically ran for the apartment lobby.

He made the familiar walk to the park about a mile from the apartment, loosing himself in the rhythm of the routine. He half expected to stop at the park for a relaxing cut or two; he had his blades, but he didn't feel up to cutting when his arm still stung, so he let the thought drift away. As he approached the park, his footsteps slowed. He surveyed the immediately vicinity, before quickly crossing the road and depositing the bag into one of the garbage cans.

Remembering Joey's inquiries about the contents of the bag, he shoved it underneath the garbage rotting in the sun. He tried to ignore the smell on his fingers as he made the trek back to the apartment. At least Ryou would be done puking and most likely done cleaning the mess by the time he returned.

At least Ryou attempted to be discreet with his habits post Bakura's admission.

…

A/N:

The Japanese recycling system makes the USA's (which is the only country I can speak for) pale in comparison. This isn't something I have extended knowledge about, but I do know that there are certain avenues one has to take to dispose of various types of garbage. I'm not sure if it was so stringent in 1998, but as recycling was somewhat talked about in my little hick town in the late 1990s, I'm sure something existed. Bakura simply doesn't care.


	15. The Beach Part 1

A/N: This plot in this chapter is taken from a scene in "Please Kill Me" by Sozuki. It's more of a dedication to her fanfic then anything else. I absolutely adored her story in ninth grade. I was coming up with ideas to lengthen "Insignificant" this past summer (as I was cleaning out a friend's pool) and the first thing that popped in my head was: let's do a beach scene!

Chapter 15: The Beach Part 1

He was stealing razors. Well, that was Bakura's plans for the day: nicking razors from the local convenience store. The morning dwindled away as Bakura sat behind the closed and locked door of his bedroom, trying to grip one of his blades to cut into his arm. He had been aiming to reopen his still throbbing wound, and found the blade glided over his skin with the precision of a butter knife. Unless he pressed deeply into his flesh and pulled.

But that hurt. Hell, the thought of wrenching dull metal through clean flesh or a sore, few week old cut made his skin crawl. Bakura bristled and walked under the blindingly bright lights at the convenience store entrance. The loud noises of customers perusing the aisles, the chirpy voices of overly friendly employees, and the buzzing and flat artificial feminine voices from various electronics caused Bakura to hesitate. Unlike the uniform store he had stolen the first razor from back in March, this place was overrun with every modern technology.

He noticed the solitary camera pointing towards the registers, and he smirked. Not so well stocked after all, Bakura reasoned. He would just need to stay away from the crowded areas. The store wasn't even equipped with a security system by the doors. He stretched his arms over his head, letting the joints to pop loudly. What a wonderfully trusting country Japan was. With that thought, he meandered to the aisle brimming with every personal aide item available.

He picked the cheaper variant of razors, not that he acknowledged the prices as he did not plan to purchase anything. He skimmed his eyes over the more expensive razors, and found the blades (especially on the packaging offering five blades for _a fine shave_) too thin for his liking. He didn't notice the razors he grabbed were pink until he plucked one from the plastic wrapping.

He suppressed the urge to shrug. It made no difference, especially after he picked apart the plastic and revealed three shiny, brand new blades—three sharp blades. Bakura pocketed the single pink razor, and left the loudness of the store. As the air conditioned cool seeped away, replaced by muggy late August humidity, Bakura took joy in the quickly slipping away summer break. He tugged on his sleeves as if the action could circulate the oppressive heat.

Soon enough, he told himself, school would start up and impose the long sleeved uniform rule, then the temperature would steadily drop through September and October. Just as soon as he suffered through the last week of August and the tournament the Mouto's were hosting next week. He felt his lips curl back in a sneer, and he patted the bulge in his pocket, his plastic and metal hundred yen prize.

…

Bakura and Ryou lounged in front of the television that evening after dinner. For the most part, dinner had been a calm affair: Ryou and Bakura ate and completed the meal by washing up—Ryou washed and Bakura rinsed and dried. He managed to complete the task without lifting his sleeve and Ryou did not rush off to vomit up the meal, so Saturday was better than Friday, and the two celebrated with a senseless game show and a relaxing evening.

On the first commercial break, ads serving as normalcy in the chaos of the game show, Ryou offered to make tea. Two steaming mugs of green tea later, the two were fully relaxed as they, eyes wide and cackling indecently, watched the antics of people so desperate for fame or money. Surely, Bakura thought, one would have to be offered copious amounts of money to willingly flop so pathetically to shower in the nude on public television. It wasn't the strategic rules of the game that kept Bakura's or Ryou's attention.

"This is just bad," Ryou remarked, almost as a continuation of Bakura's thoughts. He sipped at his cup of tea as the—surprise!—naked woman was relinquished to the lucky winner and the entire studio audience and every viewer in the country.

Bakura laughed and threw Ryou a glance. "It really is. I think I prefer the commercials over this." He gestured at the television, at the game show, which abruptly went to a commercial as if challenging Bakura's statements.

Ryou leaned forward as the commercial blared, in an obnoxious parody of a sensual feminine voice, about the newest electronic gadget. "That would be nice," he murmured.

Bakura looked at it, asking blankly, "What is it?"

"It's like a VCR," Ryou said, to which Bakura continued to stare blankly at him. Ryou scratched his head as he tried to come up with an answer to Bakura's confusion. "It lets you play TV shows at home. Yugi has one; it's how Pegasus invited him to Duelist Kingdom."

Here Bakura nodded as the information sank in. He wasn't around for the viewing of the tape, but he had seen the VCR at the Mouto's. If he thought back hard enough, he remembered it from the impromptu 'modernity' lessons he and the idiot Pharaoh had received. "Why don't you have one, then?"

Ryou shrugged as the commercial changed to the newest cell phone ad. "I never really watched much TV before, so I never wanted one. I used to play a lot of tabletop games. I never had much time to care about it."

Bakura nodded. He tried to quell the guilt pooling in his stomach. Even though Ryou had not mentioned the RPG crap to be cruel or passive aggressive, Bakura still remembered his own involvement in those games. "I see," he said finally, and the mood in the room soured. He plucked himself off the couch and headed to his bedroom. He had better things he could be doing than drowning in past memories, of which still remained, tantalizingly new, in his pocket.

…

Bakura awoke the next day, Sunday, later to the ever present soreness from the cut-that-would-not-heal and the newest pinpricks of pain from his better-things-to-do-last-night, earlier than his usual routine of dragging himself out of bed, rubbing the crusty matted gunk from his eyes just before lunch He blinked, going from half asleep and confused by the sounds of early morning birds chirping, to conscious of Ryou holding a phone conversation on his mobile phone from across the hall. With his door open. He threw himself back on his bed, head smashing against his pillow. He would never get back to sleep with the constant stinging from the cut, his pounding head, and the insufferable humidity.

He listened to the end of Ryou's conversation as he stared upwards at the ceiling, at the tiny splinters and nooks he was familiar with. "The beach? Today?" A pause. Bakura ran an arm lightly up and down his arms. A beach outing would be…unpleasant, surely. "Well, I suppose we could. We don't have anything else planned." Bakura outright grimaced at the thought of sitting in the sweltering sun. At least the apartment blocked the direct influence of the sun.

After a minute of pleasantries, Ryou hung up the phone, and Bakura stalked out to the kitchen, snarling at Ryou in the process, "Done planning my life for me?"

Ryou frowned, mobile phone still in hand, "You don't have to go, you know."

Bakura chose to keep his confirmation and agreement silent as he stormed past Ryou to the bathroom.

…

Bakura plopped down on the couch nearly tossing a premade bag full of supplies for the beach on the floor beside him. Ryou looked up from the kitchen where he was preparing a bento for himself and Bakura. "You are coming?" His face lit up.

Bakura shrugged, just kicking the bag lightly as a response.

Ryou added rice balls on the top layer, before closing both bento boxes. "I made you one just in case," he said as he slipped a wide rubber band on each, placing them in a cloth bag.

"You made me a bento?" Bakura asked, gazing down at his fingers. The edges of his vision blurred, and he swallowed a lump down his throat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ryou said, setting the bag down next to Bakura's. He surveyed the apartment. "Well I think we're done. Just have to wait for the rest to meet us." He flicked on the television with the remote. As a mindless show filled the small apartment with garish noises, Bakura curled up with his knees to his chest, a satisfied calmness spreading over his countenance.

Time passed with the ending of the first game show, to the beginning of a comedy sitcom, before the entire group: Yugi, Yami, Tea, Joey, Tristan, and Marik, arrived. Ryou let the group in, handing the least packed individuals, Joey and Tristan, extra towels and snacks. "So, we're ready?" he asked.

After a round of nods of confirmation, the group stumbled out of the apartment, with Bakura at the rear. He swore, remembering something suddenly, and smacked his fist against the door. "Be right back."

"Where are you—" Yami asked.

"Forgot something," Bakura called, barreling back into his room. Digging through his dresser drawers in a blind panic, he shoved clothes to one side, not noticing or caring when some articles fell to the floor. At the very bottom of the third drawer, he saw the Change of Heart card. He plucked the card up and shoved it into his pockets. He turned on a heel, and followed the group out to the hallway and down eight floors to the parking lot, where Solomon Mouto waited in a van.

"What'd you forget?" Marik asked as Ryou breathed, "A van? Where did you ever get one?"

Bakura slid into the vehicle, mumbling, "Nothing important," letting Yugi extrapolate on Ryou's interest, and Marik's interest wavered from his suspicions to the vehicle-talk.

"One of Grandpa's friends let him borrow it. It's foreign made."

Tea laughed as she buckled her seatbelt, glancing up front where Solomon sat on the left side rather than the right. "I didn't even notice. So it is."

"Is that harder to drive?" Joey leaned forward from his spot, encircling his arms around Solomon's headrest. "I could help you out, Gramps, you know, if you need it."

Tristan smacked Joey on the head. "He doesn't need your kind of help."

"Besides, you can't get a driver's license in Japan until you're eighteen," Marik announced from the back.

Joey whirled his head around to face Marik, nearly taking out Bakura, who flattened himself against Ryou. He uncrossed his arms momentarily to catch himself. Joey spat, "Damn foreigner know-it-alls."

Bakura glowered as he repositioned himself, and crossed his arms once more. Joey gulped, turning around to face the front, where Solomon and Yugi were chuckling from the front seat. Bakura leaned his head against the back of the car, tightening his folded arms. His one cut still throbbed, his head pounded relentless, and it was a living fucking oven.

It was going to be a long car ride.

…

The beach was just as bad as Bakura surmised. During his angry sulking in the morning, he had prepared what hopefully passed as appropriate beach wear. When Tea stripped to a low cut two piece suit resembling what Bakura considered under garments, he questioned his choice.

Alone to change, he stripped to swimming trunks. He stared at his exposed arms. No way was he going to walk out there with the obvious scars, some white, but mostly bright red in the heat, new smatterings of open wounds, and the one cut, which was still raised, red, and sore, and kind of yellow… Bakura grimaced, throwing on his white, collared shirt, without bothering to button it.

…

Bakura resolutely ignored the voices trying to get his attention off to the side. He stretched languidly along the towel Ryou had packed for him. Thoughtful brat. He toyed with the edges of his shirt sleeves. Summers had been warm in Egypt. Logically he knew this, however the heat, as he remembered from his first life, had been a dry heat. Unlike the Japanese sun that bore down on him with a muggy humidity. He flicked a hand around his collar, grimly wiping sweat away.

Ugh. The long sleeves and extra layer didn't help matters any, but like hell he was going to take it off. "Oi! Bakura!" a shout finally broke through his forced concentration on anything but the people he was coerced to spend time with.

Why had he agreed to this excursion again? Oh right, the smile that lit up Ryou's face. Not that he cared about him or anything. He cocked his head at Marik, the ring leader in trying to get him to participate in…some sort of water game. Even he, with his lack of concern regarding societal niceties, acknowledged the glares that Ryou's group of friends received ranged from pointed disapproval and outright fury.

Most of the beach dwellers propped up shaded tarps and barbecued a meal. In fact, aside from young children, their group was comprised of the only older people in the water. Reluctantly Bakura replied to Marik (or the idiot would never deign to shut up), "Yes?" Blunt. Simple, and to the point.

"Can you second me?" Ryou asked, the only one else who was actually on the sand. Though he figured Ryou would join the others in the water after he conquered his aversion to showing his slightly less skeletal frame. Bakura however, was not going in the water. Ever.

He nodded, acquiescing to Ryou as the boy shot him a toothy grin. Bakura plucked a second sheet of paper from his hands. "What're we doing exactly?" he asked as he plopped down next to Ryou.

Ryou scratched his neck. "You know, I really don't know." He laughed, a light hearted sound Bakura doubted he'd heard escape Ryou's mouth before. Bakura smirked. Which instantly froze on his face and slid off when Ryou called Yami over to clarify.

"Do you have any idea how this works?" He gestured at the paper filled with what must have been Joey's signature chicken scratch.

Yami set a hand on Bakura's shoulder and leaned over him to assess the instructions better. Bakura squashed the flinch that desperately wanted to shudder through his upper back. Bakura yanked his shoulder forward, and Yami slipped. He hid a smirk, especially when Ryou's head tilted towards him in a disapproving frown. Yami had to step awkwardly to regain his balance much to Bakura's pleasure. Ryou angry at him in defense of his friends and disgracing Yami: ah normalcy. He ignored the small pang in his chest, shoving all his thoughts aside to pretend he cared about the rules of some stupid made up game.

And, oh was it stupid. After Yami finished explaining the mechanic of the game—Bakura suspected he had devised this game as it seemed contrived to allow Yugi or Yami the win, or whoever started as the leader. Yes, very contrived. Bakura tossed the papers down, satisfied when the top most sheet floated away on a breeze.

He stalked off, intent on returning to the quiet of his towel. At least he could nurse his headache in peace. Sod Ryou's opinion of him. He laid down on the towel, facedown and pressed his forehead into the warm sand. With his eyes close, he could pretend to sleep. He inhaled a deep breath, and for a moment nothing hurt—not his head, not his arm, not his gut. When had that started hurting, he wondered.

A prodding, someone's, a dead someone's, finger jabbed at his arm. Thankfully the finger poked against his upper arm which was relatively free of open wounds. He only cut there when his forearms ached too much to cut up. The cuts on his upper arm tended to be deeper, and the wounds didn't bleed enough quite frankly. Bakura rolled over on his side, propping his head on his arm. Unconsciously, he grasped the edge of his shirt sleeve in his palm.

"What do you want, Pharaoh?" he snapped as the sun flashed in his eyes, reminding him he felt like shit.

Yami kneeled next to him and spoke in what must've been a forced neutral tone. "Ryou's worried about you. Said you seemed more distant than usual."

Bakura snorted. As if Ryou said anything to Yami. Now that his health was improving, Ryou tended to bring up his qualms regarding Bakura himself, a habit Bakura wasn't sure if he liked or not. "Fuck off, you don't really give a damn," he drawled, letting the words roll slowly off his tongue.

Yami frowned, but stood up with a huff. "Fine," he practically hissed. "You're right. I don't care." He hesitated, staring down at Bakura. His silhouette partially eclipsed the sun, but not well enough for Bakura to remain silent about Yami's lingering presence.

Bakura waved his opposite head, momentarily forgetting about the loose sleeve. He caught himself seconds later, and snarled at Yami and his goddamn furled brows. "Fuck. Off."

Finally, Yami did. Bakura flopped back to the ground, his muscles trembling at the exertion of keeping himself propped upright. He really did feel ill. He blamed the beach, the humid sun, and his weak resolve. For the next beach venture, he was staying home. Hell, it probably would be more entertaining than watching Yugi in the far off distance of the ocean single handily winning some pathetic fake game.

An hour later, he remained lounging on a towel on the sand, considering different methods to escape the sun, while the rest of the group ran around in the water scantily clad. Only Ryou remained, still wearing the clothes he had worn over in the car, a loose fitting short sleeved top and baggy track pants.

A wet hand dropped on Bakura and Ryou's shoulders. Ryou let out a high pitched shriek, while Bakura flipped his head around to speak venom and enact homicide on the idiot foolish enough… Joey laughed maniacally. "Come join us."

"No."

"I'm good here," Ryou said. He tugged at the top of his shirt, twisting the material.

Joey narrowed his eyes. "You're letting that affect you?" he spoke in a low, no nonsense tone. "Go in as you are then."

"I couldn't," Ryou shook his head and twisted his shirt fabric more.

"Yes you can!" Joey grasped Ryou by the arm, physically dragging him to the ocean. Bakura smirked. He fell back against the towel and closed his eyes, letting the heat lull him to a slumber.

He slept soundly, until four arms lifted him up off the ground. He twisted in their grasp, trying to wrangle out of Tristan's and Joey's catch with sheer will power fruitlessly, until he landed with a splash into four feet of water. He pummeled to the bottom, hitting grainy sand with his back, before reacting. He came up, splashing and gasping, breathing in deep lungful of oxygen, amidst laughter. His cheeks burned and he felt nauseous.

"Fucking idiots!"

…

A/N:

I believe I already mentioned Japanese currency: the lazy way of converting it (to US dollars) is to take off two decimal places. ¥520 becomes $5.20, which (in my lazy conversion) a pound is worth twice as much as the US dollar (£5=$10). It's not; it's more like 2/3, but oh currency rates… $5.20=£3.36 by the way.

Bakura's clothing choices for the beach would not be too out of place in Japan. At least no one would question him like they would in where I live. Yes, people will wear bathing suits in Japan, but choosing to cover up your arms/chest isn't unheard of. Also, no one will question him because it's 1998, and in Japan, cutting was almost unheard of so they don't know what they're suspicious of. I did sort of describe the climate of a Japanese beach in the story, with the make shift tens and barbeque meals, however Bakura and the rest are teenagers and I imagine even kids are more relaxed on the beach than family units or adult guests.


	16. The Beach Part 2

A/N: An update! What an odd occurrence, huh? I have an author's note at the end where I angst over the editing process of this and coming chapters, if that explains my pause in updates?

Chapter 16: The Beach Part 2

…

When the mad rage seeped from Bakura, he was left with a startling realization. Dripping wet, chest deep in salty ocean water, Bakura grasped at his swimming trunks, suddenly aware of the pockets' lack of security. He fumbled with the pockets, eyes widening as he realized the card was missing, that his blades were missing.

"You fucking idiots!" he screamed, enraged, causing pandemonium with the general public. He felt more than just Joey's and Tristan's eyes on him, but in his panic and haste to find his card, he could care less. His fingers flexed, and he needed to cut, right now, now that he didn't have the comforting presence of the blades that were almost always at his reach within the pocket of whatever he had been wearing.

He plunged down into the water, vainly trying to search the murky ocean water. The sea salt stung at his eyes as he touched his palm against the bottom of the ocean, scraping uselessly at the sand and rock ground. After diving down two more times, eyes burning and sea salt tracks dripping and hardening on his face, Bakura gave up, walking back to the shore, slowly, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. His lips pressed together in a deep scowl.

When he returned to the towel he had been sleeping on, Yugi and Ryou were waiting, both dripping wet with equally apologetic grimaces on their faces. Bakura dropped onto the towel, sitting like Ryou, knees to his chest, arms hanging over his legs effectively burying his ashen face.

He burrowed his feet into the sand granules, pretending the pinpricks and nicks on his feet equaled the relief of a cut. Why had he brought his blades with him, he wondered as he remained in his hunched up position. Fuck. Logically he knew he could acquire more razor blades; he still had the glass shard from the mirror somewhere in his room. He had something, but he couldn't fathom the lack of blades at this immediate moment. He felt a sense of urgency, a need to steal another razor from the closest convenience store, right _now_.

Every thought shifted to how he could get a hold of a sharp object. He couldn't imagine the next four odd stretch of hours without cutting (not that he left the apartment with any intent to cut), but none of that mattered as his logical reason flushed away into swirling cacophony of ego. He bit the inside of his cheek against the complex emotions, thick and tangible; he wished he had a blade to bleed out all of the shit from today. Hell, he wished he'd never agreed to go in the first place.

"Here," a tan hand halted near his nose. Bakura opened his eyes, not moving from his curled up balled position. His eyebrows arched, and he startled when he realized what Yami was holding. "Is this yours or Ryou's?"

Bakura batted at the card. "Hand it over."

Yami glared. "You're welcome," he said in a nasty tone that Bakura would have replied to with his own scornful comment if he wasn't so desperate for the card and the blades back. He stared intently at the card, which Yami held upside down. Bakura's heart pounded in his chest; he made another attempt to grab the card from Yami's hand, which was a couple inches out of reach.

Yami retracted the card, looking at Bakura quizzically. "What's that from?"

Bakura glanced down at his arm out of habit. Blood pounded in his ears and his legs went numb. He sucked in a breath. Through his water soaked shirt, he could just make out a distinct red line against his inner arm. He pinned his arm to his side, frantically grasping at air with his opposite arm, striving to grab the Change of Heart card.

"None of your business, Pharaoh!" his voice cracked.

Ryou leaned forward to get a better look at what Yami pointed out with his index finger. "When'd you get hurt?"

Vision clearing, Bakura noticed where Yami's eyes were. He glanced a look down at his knee where a tiny white scar stood out, reflecting off the natural light. He could've sagged to his knees in relief. His head started pounding anew as the adrenaline dissipated. "For fuck's sake, I don't know!"

Finally wrapping fingers around his card, Bakura wrenched it from Yami's grasp. He flipped it upright, feeling the familiar weight shift as at least one blade sink to the bottom. He jammed the card back in his swimming trunks pocket, and stalked off.

…

Bakura stomped up the sandy beach, up to the gravel of the parking lot and past a play park designed for toddlers. He spared a fraction of a glance for a young—four at best—boy with an unruly mob of brown hair and his, he assumed, mother, before heading into a thicket of trees that bordered a further back, more remote playground. He settled himself far enough in the tress to not be visible to anyone passing by, but close enough the playground, with less plastic and more older metal and wooden equipment was available for older kids, was within sight.

Bakura slumped against a tree trunk and let his body slide to the ground. He dropped his head into his palms, and returned to his curled-up-in-a-ball position, resting his elbows on his folded knees. He already started the day—hell, the past two weeks—feeling like shit. On top of it, he was soaked from head to foot, and the cold in the shadows of the woodsy area was not helping, but this was the only place he could hide out until his sleeves dried.

He watched a group of eight to ten year old children play on the park equipment. They had driven a few hours from the city of Domino out to the rural country side, and the difference was staggering. The little park his feet dragged himself to on a semi regular basis fifteen minutes from Ryou's apartment was comprised of mostly plastic equipment designed for young children; only the swings were metal, but even those were covered with strips of plastic. Out here, with the seemingly never ending sky and one or two story buildings, the park was much more expansive.

Even in his time as the parasite in Ryou's body, he had never seen a park so, well, rustic looking, so he continued to watch the kids obliviously and ignorantly play in the luxurious park as he tried to stave off the drowning sensation coiling in circles round his head. He had long since propped his chin on his hands to properly watch the children run through wooden tower structures and race across the pebbled ground.

Every so often, he saw a glimpse of Ryou or, oddly enough, Yami wandering in the area they believed he ran off, through the trees in front of him, and his heart raced in his chest. As they alternatively passed over the wooden park and, consequently, the woods, his breathing slowed and he returned to his almost meditative state of watching the children play. His mind shut off, and he did not think for a glorious hour or two.

Finally, as the sun raised higher on the sky, the children, one by one, were called off by various parents, and the group disbanded, leaving Bakura with nothing to halt his thoughts. He inspected his sleeves and drug his card protector out of his pocket. He heaved a sigh, and pulled himself up off the grass and walked back the way he came.

…

Bakura returned after affirming that two of his blades were still in the back of the card protector. He tried to shrug off the worry that someone would find the third, since the card was still dry, so it had not made it into the water, rather fell somewhere in the sand, and pin the sharp object on him. He looked at his arm. The sleeves had dried enough to increase the opacity of the material. The cuts were no longer visible. Satisfied, he walked back to his towel, where the others had also laid out their towels and were unearthing their respective bentos.

He sat next to Ryou, who handed him the bento he had made for him. Bakura shook his head. "Not hungry," he muttered, which was true. After the morning he'd had, his stomach was still knotted. The sun's direct rays were making him queasy. He rested his head on his knees vainly to block out the bright light.

Ryou chewed slowly on the bit of rice ball in his mouth, slowly. After a full minute he swallowed, toying with the rice ball in his hands, passing it back and forth, rather than bringing it back up to his mouth. Bakura noticed the interaction from his vantage point, eyes slit, peaking up over his knees.

Though Yugi continued talking about their plans for the afternoon and Solomon's imminent return to pick them up, Joey and Tristan were staring unabashedly at Ryou. Joey opened his mouth once, seemed to realize Yugi was talking, and then closed it without speaking.

Bakura growled, lifting his head slightly to glare up into Ryou's eyes. "Just eat your fucking lunch," he snapped, lowering his head, but still looking at Ryou.

Ryou's demeanor brightened and he picked up his discarded rice ball, taking a tentative bite out of it.

"That's not helpful," Marik said in response to Bakura's harsh words. Bakura said nothing, just glared harder.

Ryou merely smiled. He finished off the rest of his rice ball.

…

Just as expected, and much to Bakura's relief, Solomon arrived not long after the group had finished their lunches, the empty bentos neatly packed away in their separate bags. Everyone found themselves crammed into the borrowed, western style van for the couple hour long trip back to Domino.

"I'm bored." Joey's whining cut through the silence of the car.

Tristan glanced over, both of his eyebrows raised, his lack of concern evident. "And what would you like us to do about it?" Make him shut up, for starters, Bakura thought as he slouched further in his seat and leaned his head against the window. He pressed his aching head into the cool glass.

Joey twisted himself at his lower back from where he sat in the front seat, opposite of Solomon (his second transparent attempt at driving), and lunged himself at Yugi. Bakura scowled in his seat as Ryou leaned in his direction. Ryou leaned at him, as opposed to on him, much to Bakura's relief. The quiet boy shot Bakura a small smile unbeknownst to the rest of the group. Yugi maneuvered himself, plastering himself to the opposite window, away from Ryou and Bakura.

Joey stared pleadingly into Yugi's eyes. "Yug," he implored with a wide-eyed expression of desperation. Exaggerated desperation, but genuine enough to invoke Yugi's sympathetic pat on Joey's shoulder. "Please. Entertain me."

Yugi shook his head, as Yami leaned forward. The Pharaoh's hand brushed unawares at the edge of Bakura's shoulder length hair. He bristled further against the window as the idiot deigned to speak. "I understand you're bored, but how is Yugi supposed to help?"

Joey shrugged. "I dunno."

At Joey's nonchalance, Bakura snapped back, voicing his thoughts, "Then why don't you silence yourself." Permanently, his mind added.

"That's not called for," Tea chimed in, from her seat behind Ryou, as Joey tempted fate and the short fuse ire's of Bakura and Tristan, and spouted off, "If anyone should shut up, it's you." He jerked a thumb at Tristan. Or Bakura. The action wasn't certain as the two were separated only by the strip of fake leather that Bakura's seat was comprised of.

Who cares, really who the fuck cares!? Bakura seethed as the argument between Joey and Tristan escalated. As expected, Tristan assumed Joey had been insinuating he was at fault and the insults volleyed back and forth over Bakura's slouched head. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him—in part to prevent either of the two idiots from falling into his lap. He scowled deeper at the thought. The cuts on his arms rubbed painfully, sending little jolts that kind of, but not quite, calmed him.

He felt the edge of the plastic card holder rub at his leg through the thin fabric of his swim shorts. A tiny sensation of plastic against his thigh: serving as a reminder of what he would rather be doing. Argh. He curled a hand into a fist as Tristan launched himself over the seat right by Bakura, causing the hairs on his neck to stand up at the unexpected presence.

His fist clamped around black tendrils of hair, and he yanked. Four small chunks, a little over twenty individual strands curled around his fisted fingers and the anger receded enough so he could think. Bakura let the mostly black-with-a-hint-of-his-natural-white-hair-color strands fall slowly to the floor, unnoticed by any of the other occupants. With both hands free, Bakura shoved Tristan's backside, projecting the other boy into the one he was screaming obscenities at.

Tristan, after regaining his equilibrium, shot around. One hand already curled into a fist, Tristan screamed, "What the fuck was that for?"

"He's right. What was that?" Joey chimed in, changing his argument to side with his friend. Bakura swerved to the side and caught Tristan's now uselessly flopping arm. He shoved the sudden onslaught of disgust under his anger. He let the rage that had been bubbling below a thin surface free. Anger drove away the emotions that made him seethe to begin with. Feeling whole, alive, as the rage burned at his nerve endings, he sucked in a deep breath.

Bakura smirked, his response carved against the icy exterior of his stone gaze. Everything is his body froze as the anger rage snapped icy pellets through his nerve endings. After a long, tense for the others, moment, the argument dwindled into silence, and the cold rage trickled away, leaving Bakura numb. He let his body relax and returned to leaning against the window. He still didn't feel well, and the impromptu flight-or-fight reactions sapped whatever strength he had.

…

A couple hours later, Bakura and Ryou entered their apartment, alone, much to Bakura's cheer. The silence Bakura's snarl created only lasted for a quarter hour, until Joey, once again, pleaded with every passenger (sans Bakura) to provide him entertainment. In the last half hour of the trip, Tristan voiced the most vile and equally unappealing comment: "If you're so bored, why don't you play puppy to your master."

And the queasiness had returned full force. Bakura's stomach rolled when Joey dazedly questioned, "Who?" He jerked his head across the length of the vehicle, back and forth. After a moment's thought, his face screwed up in a physical manifestation of Bakura's nausea. Rage quickly replaced the sickened expression. "You talking about Kaiba!" And he lunged over Ryou, who, unprepared, fell against Bakura (he suppressed a groan at the added weight on his tender cut).

Thirty minutes later, Ryou set the bentos on the counter. Observing Bakura's still uneaten bento, he called Bakura over.

"You okay?" he asked, bringing up a hand. Bakura flinched. Ryou paused, and then continued to rest his palm on Bakura's forehead. "Your cheeks are flushed." He placed his hand on his own forehead then returned it to Bakura's. "And you feel warm." He scrutinized Bakura.

Bakura shrugged, stepping from one foot to the other, staring off in the direction of the hallway. He curled his fingers around the card in his pocket. His throat tightened, as Ryou continued to mother him. "I feel fine," he said finally. He quickly dredged up hair thin excuses, anything to force Ryou's attention elsewhere. "It's not like I had time to eat on the ride home."

"I think you have a fever," Ryou said, ignoring his protests, as he led Bakura to the couch by his hand. "Come lay down." Bakura, too hot and miserable to continue fighting him, relented, allowed himself to be lead, and collapsed on the couch.

Ryou picked up the beach bags and set them in the kitchen, returning with a cloth rag and a small bowl of ice water. He kneeled next to Bakura and wrung out the rag into the bowl. The last thing Bakura remembered was a cold cloth being pressed against his forehead and the alleviation of the unbearable humidity as his eyes shut and he drifted off.

…

A/N:

Oh the foreshadowing, guys. This chapter and last chapter: remember them. Apparently that's what I do when I can't think of scenes, I sneak in tidbits of future plot lines. I'm not sure how soon the next chapters will be up. I need to come up with a *lot* of material, because I was apparently I was high when I wrote the next four chapters (no, I really was pretty baked on legal-with-a-prescription opiates last summer).

If there are any glaring spelling errors in the text, I apologize. I usually give it a more thorough editing, but I figured a missed spelling error or two is better than waiting even longer for the chapter.


	17. Fever

A/N: Please read the author note at the bottom (and review with lovely comments on the new cover image to celebrate the half way mark ^_^).

Chapter 17: Fever

…

The next few days passed in a feverish stupor, as Bakura drifted in and out of consciousness, semi-aware of Ryou's devoted bed side manner. Every so often, he would drag himself off the couch, amidst the gut churning nausea and splitting headache to join Ryou at the table for meals. Which he usually ate a bite or two before returning to the couch, less the nausea bring up more than just bile. Ryou met him after some time, with a cold compress, thermometer and steaming bowl of fish stock.

"I hate this," he groaned into a couch cushion, head buried into the crook of the arm and the seat of the couch.

Ryou kneeled next to him, eyebrows raised, pulling off amused concern effortlessly. He held the bowl of broth near Bakura's face, offering it as a truce.

Bakura's stomach clenched at the salty smell wafting to his nose. He retaliated, further burrowing himself into the couch. "I hate you."

Ryou set the bowl down with a soft clink. "I'll take that as a no then," he said softly. The phone rang, loudly, shrilly reverberating and bouncing in Bakura's skull. He clenched at his ears with his fists. Ryou stood and walked over to the phone, answering, "Hello, Bakura residence."

He twisted the phone cord in his hands as the person on the other end spoke, thankfully, at a low enough octave Bakura could not make out the actual words. "Oh, hi Yugi." He leaned against the wall, looking in Bakura's direction, all the while twisting the cord. "Um no, I'm sorry. Bakura's home sick." A pause as Yugi spoke; Bakura held his aching head in his hands from his face down position on the couch, wishing dearly the conversation would end. Soon.

"Yeah, I hope it goes well? I'll call if anything changes." Ryou said his goodbyes and hung up, returning to kneel next to Bakura.

"At least let me get a temp," he said while grabbing the thermometer. Bakura begrudging rolled over enough to take the thermometer from Ryou and stick it under his tongue. If being granted another chance at life resulted in illness, they—whomever the disembodied spiritual paradigms that may or may not have given him the opportunity—could just end his existence now.

After a moment, the thermometer beeped. Ryou looked at it, reading off the temperature. "You definitely have a fever. It's 38." Bakura groaned, and Ryou looked over Bakura, noticing his choice of apparel for the first time.

"Why don't you change into something cooler," he suggested, already on his feet at the prospect of any doable task.

"I'm fine," Bakura muttered, partially too ill to be bothered with changing, partially acutely aware of the tell-tale scars on his arms. Ryou walked into Bakura's room, regardless, and returned a few moments later with quite possibly the only short sleeved shirt Bakura owned and a pair of shorts.

"Here, all the gopher work is done for you," Ryou said brightly.

Bakura lifted his face from the couch. "I said I was fine."

Ryou folded and unfolded the shirt, mostly to keep himself busy, to feel useful against the illness that wreaked havoc in Bakura's body. "We should get you some summer clothes too, after you feel better." He held the clothes out for Bakura.

Bakura swatted the clothes away, flinging them across the room. "Fuck! I said I was fine. Just let me be, okay!?"

Silence filled the room. Ryou stooped to pick up the discarded clothes. "Fine," he said coolly, walking away from Bakura.

…

A few hours later, not that Bakura was aware of the length of time, he awoke to the icy contrast of Ryou placing a damp washcloth to his forehead. "Sorry," he mumbled, half asleep.

"It's alright," Ryou said, speaking mostly to himself. "I know you don't feel well." He sat down next to Bakura's feet, at the opposite end of the couch, actually sitting upright, rather than slouching into an armchair or curling into a ball.

Bakura, still disoriented from being forced awake, chose to stare openly at Ryou, mind too foggy to supply the correct words to form any inquiry at Ryou's odd mannerisms. As Ryou's own inquisitive gaze washed over him, he found himself the suspect of interrogation.

Ryou placed a hand on his arm, specifically an arm covered in cuts and scars underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Ice might as well been dumped over his head as Bakura reacted instantly and violently. He yanked his arm from Ryou and, as extra protection, folded his arms to his chest.

Ryou's eyes followed the motion of Bakura's reaction and something in his expression shifted, as if he were moments from unearthing King Tut's tomb. "It's over 30 degrees out, you're running a temp, so why are you in long sleeves?"

The light in Ryou's eyes dimmed, and, in that instant, Bakura knew if he waited for the light to return, Ryou's mind would provide the answer. His insides turned to mush and he screamed away the sensation, like lies, dribbling down his back, "I'm cold! I'm sick, and I'm miserable! For fuck's sake, why does it matter!?"

"Because!" Ryou shoved off the couch and towered over Bakura. "You think I can't tell that you're not happy? I know what it's like to not be happy, _okay_?" His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes watered.

Bakura rolled over to face the inside of the couch, nose against the back cushion. "Happy!? I'm fine!"

Ryou snorted. When he spoke after a moment, his voice was more level, calm. "You just admitted it yourself, Bakura. You aren't happy. Fine is not happy."

Bakura flipped round the couch, forcing himself into a sitting position with the aid of adrenaline pouring through his veins. He noted Ryou had moved to kneel next to him. Bakura's abrupt movement knocked Ryou off kilter, and Bakura automatically reached out with a hand to catch Ryou's grasp. "Fine is fine. It doesn't matter."

Ryou made to grab at Bakura's wrist, while their fingers remained intertwined together. Once Ryou was obviously balanced upright, Bakura wrenched his arm from Ryou's seeking fingers, and resumed his defensive arm crossing. Ryou said, "Yeah, fine. Just about as fine as me."

Any strength the adrenaline had lent him had since drained away, leaving Bakura weak once more, so he allowed the exhaustion to take over him. He melted back into the couch cushion, jerking his head away from Ryou. "Just fuck off," he mumbled.

…

Why was he doing this? The thought remained at the forefront of Bakura's consciousness, which was a grandiose statement, as Bakura was barely conscious. He was officially sick. After weeks of avoiding it, Ryou's cool hand on his aching forehead and the more damning plastic rod of the electric thermometer confirmed it. To top it off, the affection the quiet boy smothered him with surely must be making the symptoms worse.

Well, Ryou hadn't been all that friendly since their fight, Bakura supposed it was… The rest of the evening…he thinks had passed…Ryou continued to dutifully tend to him, bringing him whatever he needed complete with a frosty look and a scowl that reminded him the conversation was not over…

He shrugged that thought into his subconscious, wishing he could just as easily shove away the pounding in his head or the present nausea that assaulted him every time he thought of food or eating, or the constant aching from the cuts on his arm.

Regardless, sick and miserable, he walked to the convenience store about a block from Ryou's apartment with the intent to shoplift…something. Honestly, it didn't matter what Bakura shoved in his pockets, anything, any slight thrill to make the all-encompassing wretchedness of illness lift for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as he trudged the last few feet to the store's entrance, where a sales associate greeted him cheerfully. He nodded out of reflex and immediately regretted it. He snarled at the floor as his head pounded in a new rhythm, a reminder: yes, the headache was in fact, still present.

He had to sneak out while Ryou was sleeping. The boy hardly left him to his own devices, clucking around like a right mother hen, checking in on him. He pursed his lips as he perused the aisles aimlessly. He could always get more blades, especially since one of his was currently resting under layers of sand. That, or washed away by the sea.

He supposed Ryou's action were justified, since he barely made his way off the couch for the first half of the week. Sleeping in his bed—even with the far to snug fitted sheets Ryou had replaced his single cover sheet with—had been a liberating experience. He looked at razors along a row of overpriced personal care products, and ignored the niggling thought that he currently was caged by this fucking cold or flu, or whatever the hell it was.

He had never been this sick in his former life. Never, he swore to himself as he slipped a single razor from the paper binding and shoved the freed object into his jeans pocket, along with his fisted hands—one hand in each pocket. His heart raced (not in a dizzying, sickly way) and a smile tugged at his lips. Everything awful, the fever that plagued his body, thoughts of cutting muddied by images of swirling red, the aloneness he had felt as he hid in the woods by the beach, even yesterdays fight with Ryou's suspicions dissipated.

He was happy. In that moment, as the automated doors closed behind him, silencing the sales associate for once and all, he was able to breathe. And all was well.

Bakura tripped his way back to the apartment, the couple minutes' walk stretching into a half hour as black dots pirouetted across his vision. Which would not have been so debilitating save for the morning sun rising on the distant horizon bleeding into rainbow squiggles that joined into a duet. He weaved dangerously on the, thankfully, empty sidewalk back to the apartment.

It was nothing short of miraculous when he crossed the parking lot, and breezed through the door. The dinging of the elevator intensified the pounding in his head.

Bakura leaned against the wall, curious of Ryou's whereabouts. He contemplated that as he ignored the nausea induced by the floating sensation of the elevator navigating up eight floors. He hadn't planned for the extra time he had needed walking to and from the store due to his illness—in fact he had simply left the apartment at just before dawn, whenever he happened to wake and feeling particularly sorry for himself.

Dinging again: Bakura hissed and crept slowly through the hallway to Ryou's apartment. Ryou, even in the summer, rose ridiculously early. Sometime before noon, Bakura surmised that much, but he wasn't quite sure what time. Though, there had been a few nights where Bakura would be closing his eyes for the night as Ryou was puttering around in his closet for a change of clothes.

His heart pounded in his chest at the realization. He wasn't nearly well enough to pull off any level of subversion. He accepted his fate with a sigh, and opened the apartment door with firm resignation. Really, his thoughts shifted to defensiveness, there was nothing illegal about taking a walk (and it's not like Ryou knew specifically what he had been up to during said walk).

He kicked his shoes off and stepped into the kitchen, prepared for a half-asleep Ryou—reprimand and all.

Silence. The room, and the rest of the apartment, was shrouded in darkness, letting the pink hues of the rising sun filter into the living room windows. Bakura glanced around, taking in Ryou's closed door, his door, which was still arched open slightly from when he had left. Disappointment settled where his heart had been racing.

Whatever. Bakura shook off the feeling, and focused on the most beneficial aspect of Ryou soundly sleeping through his very poor attempt of stealth. At least he didn't have to deal with an irate Ryou this early/late in the day. Bakura slunk off to his own room, and closed the door behind him.

…

There wasn't a proper word to describe how miserable Bakura felt, lying, dying, on the living room couch later in the morning—especially with Ryou acting as a nurse maid with a grudge, complete with cold compresses, steaming bowls of broth, and a surly glower gracing his countenance. He could not remember an instance in his former life where he had been so damn sick. His head hurt; his body ached; his stomach twisted itself into awkward positions making him want to hurl; he couldn't think his way out of his clouded mind, let along any sort of conversation with Ryou.

Hell, he couldn't remember most of the conversations he had with Ryou since Sunday? Bakura decided to halt that train of thought, as trying to figure what day of the week or how much span of time passed was too difficult in his muddled, pathetic state. Instead, he resumed his position on the couch, dying.

He smirked at ceiling as he remembered the razor in his room. At least he could still thieve in any condition. Footsteps marched their way to him and Bakura wiped any traces of smirk from his expression. He rolled his head over at Ryou, who stood in front of the couch with two bowls, one of cold water, and the other, of hot broth. He sat up and weakly grasped the hot broth, refusing to let the dark thoughts show on his face.

He hated this lack of freedom. It had been less than a week (he thought), and he was ready to do something, anything, to escape the melancholia of dependence. He forced a muttered gratitude to Ryou and carefully sipped the broth, lest it return.

This illness needed to end.

…

Bakura woke up sometime late in the afternoon, going by the steadily setting sun. The apartment was lit up with bright orange light, similar to the color of the sky, streaked with vibrant, rose petal pinks. Ryou dozed lightly in the chair, but awoke to the sound of Bakura sitting up. His head still hurt, and he still felt dazed, but he was coherent.

"Why'd Yugi call?" Bakura asked, making conversation more than general curiosity, their most recent fight forgotten, until just after he had spoken aloud to Ryou. He tried to remember how many days ago that phone call was, too.

"He wanted to know if we wanted to set up for the tournament," non-plussed, Ryou said as he handed Bakura the thermometer. Apparently, Ryou was lest actively hostile, for now. Bakura nodded, placing it under his tongue. The dueling tournament, right. That was sometime this month, he knew.

When the thermometer beeped, he handed it back to Ryou, asking, "When is it?"

"This Saturday," Ryou said, staring at the number on the thermometer. He furrowed his brows. "Still high."

"What's today?" Bakura asked. After a moment of Ryou staring blankly at the thermometer, he offered, "I'm feeling better." He was coherent, but not necessarily better, but a low grade fever wasn't much to fuss about. He certainly hadn't in his past life in Egypt.

"Thursday," Ryou said at last, still looking worried with his face all scrunched up. "I'm calling a doctor if you're still running a temperature come Saturday…"

Bakura drug himself off the couch, standing unsteadily, though he didn't elaborate that to Ryou, as if to prove he truly felt less ill. He walked the way to his room on autopilot. Though he felt like shit, sweaty and chilled simultaneously, light headed, like a balloon attached to a string body, legs akin to jelly ready to collapse underneath him, he made it to his room and closed the door.

Everything was shit. Everything just seemed so pointless. Bakura hunched over his knees as he sat on his bed behind the closed door in his room for one of the few times this week—yet he couldn't enjoy the feeling. Sure, he was sick, which contributed to his shit mood, but the physical aches and pains of this…fever, Ryou had termed it, highlighted the melancholy that threatened to suffocate him.

Hell, he was surprised Ryou was speaking to him again; at the same time, the undercurrent of guilt threatened to engulf him. Why was Ryou not angry anymore? Along with being kicked in the ass by this awful illness, he still felt mediocre compared to Ryou. He couldn't even be happy right.

He didn't want to live.

A silence buzzed noisily in his mind long after the thought monopolized him at his core. He clenched his teeth. Of course he wanted to live, he told himself fiercely. It's not that he wanted to die… He kicked at a random pile of clothes, interrupting the flow of his thoughts and smiled at what he had revealed.

He relaxed on the bed after unearthing the Change of Heart card from beneath a pile of clothes. He tipped the card over, spilling the two blades into his palm. He exhaled as he held one blade in his fingers. Even miserable with a fever, he wanted this.

Bakura stared up at the razor blade as he ruminated cutting. On one level, it seemed excessive to harm himself while he already hurt so much. He gnawed at his bottom lip. But, this kind of pain was different, and it wasn't necessarily the pain he appreciated. After the downward shift of his thoughts, cutting, well cutting seemed right.

He rolled up his sleeve, oblivious to the older cuts on his arm as he looked for a new patch of skin to mark up. As he pressed the blade to his arm, he couldn't feel any of his fever related symptoms. Everything tunneled into one single line, which slowly filled with red and spilled over on to his arm.

When the blood clotted a few moments later, he tugged his sleeve down, and returned to the living room, where Ryou shot him a confused look. "Where'd you go?"

He settled back onto the couch as the pounding in his head started anew. Now, with the aching in his head, the perspiration making him fell unclean, the shivers that wracked his body, causing his very bones to ache, the general unpleasantness of being sick, his arm stung under his sleeve. He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Nothing important," he said, answering Ryou's unasked question.

…

A/N:

Bakura's temperature is taken in Celsius, because it is Japan. 38C=100.4F, so Ryou's more worried about the length of Bakura's illness than the temperature at this point. 30C is 86F, so it's miserable and muggy.

I have a proposition for you readers: the next plot arc (aka Fall) is surprisingly bare, so I wonder, is there anything you guys want to see in Insignificant? I might not be able to use every idea (especially major plot points, because those are solid), but small scenes…


	18. The Two Who Did Not Attend the Dueling T

Chapter 18: The Two Who Did Not Attend the Dueling Tournament

…

Bakura awoke on Saturday, the day of Kame Game Shop's dueling tournament, feeling just as awful as he had for the past week. He was back in his own bed at nights, due mostly to will power. Glancing at the cracked door, assured Ryou was not lurking, he rolled up his sleeve. The newest cuts had mostly healed, but the one cut was still inflamed, almost a month later. He considered completely reopening the wound, but the very site of the cut, puffy, oozing with yellow pus, made him nauseated. His stomach didn't need the help rolling like he was at sea.

He quickly rolled his sleeve back down, and forced himself up. He made his way to the living room, where he could hear Ryou in the dining room declining something or someone on the phone.

"Bakura is still sick," he emphasized to the person on the other end. His countenance expressed how guilty he felt about it. Bakura sat down on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table out of habit.

"Yeah, but I think I should get him to a doctor. It's been a week." Ryou turned to the wall, with the mentality of a two year old toddler: if I can't see him; he isn't there.

"Who's on the phone," Bakura called out. His insides squirmed, for once, not from the ever present nausea.

Ryou held out a finger and Bakura bristled. He wasn't a child to reprimand. "What? Well I suppose that could work, but…"

"Ryou. Who is on the phone?" Bakura said, louder this time.

"It's Yugi," Ryou said reluctantly. "It's not important."

Bakura was on his feet, and standing over Ryou, and grabbed the phone out of his hands, before he could react. "Pharaoh's brat," he said into the phone.

"B-Bakura?" Yugi asked, voice grainy over the connection.

Bakura leaned backwards, away from Ryou who attempted to wrestle the phone back, and barked orders to Yugi. "Today's your dueling thing, right?" When Yugi answered with an affirmative, Bakura continued, "And you want Ryou's help?" Another "Yes." Bakura took an over large step away from Ryou. "I presume you have a plan for this?"

Yugi chimed in agreement again, explaining his plan fully to Bakura. His stomach dropped at the already laid out plan of attack. Swallowing his pride and the acid that rose in his throat at the thought of Yugi's _brilliant_ idea, Bakura replied, "He'll be there." And he hung up the phone, allowing no time for disagreement from Ryou.

Bakura returned to the couch, gently sitting down, trying to push down the general feelings of sickness away. "Yugi wants you there at noon," he said to Ryou.

"Bakura, you're still sick!" Ryou protested. He leaned in, peering into Bakura's eyes. "You are; you're pale." He placed a hand to Bakura's cheek, whom flinched back at the couch. "And clammy, and you're sweating!"

"It's four hours. I'll be fine for four hours," Bakura said, exasperated. "Besides, Yugi has that covered too." He grimaced, crossing his arms over his body like a shield against the future unpleasantness.

Ryou sat back, and chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully. "He mentioned that to me. I figured you wouldn't be ok with it."

"I'm not," Bakura growled. "Just go."

Ryou caved, "Are you—"

"Yes."

…

Ryou slipped on his tennis shoes, just as the knocking on the door started. Bakura's stomach clenched, and he grimaced into a couch cushion. Ryou tossed him a concerned look, which Bakura waved a hand impatiently in reply.

Ryou answered the door to Yami. He again looked back at Bakura, then met Yami's gaze. "Will you guys be okay?"

Yami smiled, placing his shoes on a shelf and stepping up into the apartment. "We'll be fine. Go on." He gestured to the cracked door. "Yugi needs your support." Ryou sighed, but did finally leave, making sure to inform both of them he had his mobile and to ring for any reason.

Bakura lifted his head long enough to give Ryou a dirty look as the apartment door clicked shut. He lowered his head, fully planning to sleep for the next four hours Yami played babysitter.

Yami sat on the chair, staring at Bakura's lounging form. "You look like shit," he observed.

"I _feel_ like shit _too_," Bakura spit, sarcasm dripping off every word.

Yami tapped his fingers on the end of the armrest, further infuriating Bakura—not that Yami's presence wasn't enraging enough. "No wonder Ryou insisted on staying home." He laughed, not meanly, but it still made Bakura's blood boil. "You look like a little lost puppy."

"Fuck off," Bakura half moaned. In his state of despair, he missed the concern lacing Yami's eyes.

Yami paused his repetitive finger tapping. "Why did you insist Ryou—"

Bakura cut him off, forcing himself into a cross legged sitting position. "I didn't insist." He glared, "Besides, he would've whined for days…"

Yami smiled. "No he wouldn't've. That was nice of you, you know."

Bakura refused to meet Yami's gaze, and stared at the hallway.

…

"So," Yami's voice broke the silence between the two. Bakura lifted his face from the couch cushion, mood quickly turning homicidal at the intrusion of his fevered thoughts and near comatose state.

"So, what?" Bakura ground out, irritated.

Yami crossed his legs and glanced off to the distance. Bakura followed his look to the hallways where the three bedrooms separated. "It's probably better to talk about something since we're just sitting here."

Bakura suppressed a snort. Sitting quietly with the Pharaoh was bad enough in his opinion, thanks. Besides, talking with Yami usually launched into full blown physical violence, or Yami pandering to him with simpering condescendence. His stomach turned, not from nausea for once in the past week, and he welcomed the small reprieve, until his stomach clenched in queasiness less than a minute later as Yami started in on some mundane talk which held as equal importance as discussing the weather.

He ignored it even as some of Yami's monologue seeped through the layers of nausea and indifference. "School starts back up soon."

No shit. "I'm looking forward to it." The statement would have been considered a positive thought had it not been saturated by sarcasm and practically wrenched from Bakura's teeth.

"You don't need to be so rude," Yami sniffed and missed the grimace as Bakura's stomach reminded him that he was, indeed, still sick.

"Like I'm so thrilled to go back to dealing with Kobayashi every day," Bakura retorted with a reference to their homeroom teacher, male, barely out of university and obviously overcompensating for other things lacking in his life.

Yami frowned. "He's not that bad. If you didn't go out of your way to make him miserable—"

"Me? I?" Bakura asked, incredulous, voice rising with each clipped word. "He's the one who has it out for me!"

Yami crossed his arms, glancing up at the ceiling. Bakura glared at his lap, aware of exactly what the portion of ceiling Yami stared at looked like—boring, bland, and off white; it looked solid until you really examined it, then tiny groove where the paintbrush had once circled the surface appeared.

"Please," he said. That one word, one syllable echoed in Bakura's conscious. Arrogant, placating, phony: just like the Pharaoh—he who is so perfect, so righteous, so—_ugh_! Bakura seethed.

"I haven't done anything to him!" Bakura exclaimed.

Yami leveled his gaze so his eyes bore into Bakura's, an expression that blatantly revealed Bakura's supposed lying remained affixed to his lips, which frowned disapprovingly. _I'm right; you're wrong. Nya nya nya. _

"I didn't," Bakura insisted.

Yami decided, finally, to reply verbally, "Then why do you persist on wearing the wrong uniform just to smite him?"

Bakura wanted to shout it wasn't his fault, but that would likely go over as well as trying to explain it to Kobayashi last month had. His lips quirked up in humor at that memory, and Bakura reacted in the same way he had with their teacher: by saying nothing at all.

Yami saw the small grin pasted on Bakura's face and took it to mean Bakura was pleased by his actions. "See?" he asked as he gestured to Bakura, who immediately wiped the grin from existence, scowling at his 'sitter'. "You're going out of your way to make the guy miserable.

I am not! I'm the one who is miserable! Bakura sat in stone silence as Yami continued to press into him, telling him all about his every iniquity. The constant ache in his head silenced as Yami rattled on freaking epithets on his wrongdoings, his wickedness…

"…If you just tried to be more amicable…" Bakura curled his hands into fists from where he sat on the couch, glaring back at the Pharaoh.

"…You have to give respect if you want him to leave you alone, but you're always playing the blame card..." It took all his determination to prevent his lips from curling into a sneer as Yami's monologue returned to the infamous Kobayashi.

"…No one likes you, but you don't try…" His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and his hand shook. The expanse of skin stretched taut over his knuckles faded to white as he fisted his hands against the dizzying feeling of wanting to cut.

"…Well, you probably already messed up any opportunity you had. I mean, how many chances should you get…" The ceiling and floor separated in his mind's eye and the space in between flooded with images of past cutting session, desire projected in flashes of wrists littered with rows and rows of fresh cuts, of blood dribbling down to meet the floor.

Heat bloomed in a tight knot in his chest. "Excuse me," Bakura forced out.

Yami uncrossed and re-crossed his legs as he leaned further back in the armchair. A grin curved upwards with a smugness that made the warmth unfurl from the nest in his chest and stream outwards, down his arms. "It doesn't matter. There isn't anything you can do about it."

Then I might as well get out now, Bakura thought. He physically had to bite his tongue to keep that thought safely tucked into his mind. He vividly remembered the conversations he'd had with Ryou in early July.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. No one will do anything about it," Ryou had scoffed when Bakura questioned exactly what would happen if he let slip Ryou's eccentric eating behaviors. "They'll just call it a diet-gone-wrong." He had smirked, and concluded—unknowingly answering Bakura's true question—with, "It's not like cutting your wrists or something else suicidal." Another smirk and as an afterthought, "Besides boys don't have eating disorders."

A few weeks and a month ago that conversation had taken place. Well, Bakura remembered, it hadn't exactly been a conversation so much as Bakura faux interrogating Ryou to find out what rights idiot Kobayashi had. After that explanation, Ryou's eyes had pin pointed on him, and Bakura found himself being interrogated.

He smiled wistfully at the change in roles. Now Ryou was the one concerned about him. He had ended that conversation with an abrupt dismissal: "Tch, just seeing where your fucked up eating will lead you."

Yami gazed at Bakura as the other seemed to drown in his thoughts. As he was swallowed more and more under, Bakura's eyes deadened. He pushed himself forward in the armchair and called out to him, "Bakura? Hey Bakura?"

After a moment Bakura blinked back to reality. "It doesn't matter, Pharaoh."

"Obviously it did. What happened?" he asked, actually focusing on Bakura for the first time since he arrived.

Bakura shrugged against the lingering feelings of despair. Everything was shit; life was not fair and he would never win against Pharaoh. Why bother: the thought swirled dangerously in and out of his thoughts, and he reined it back in before he voiced it aloud.

The flashback to last month reminded him that, as a minor, he was subject to inquiry if he made mention of harming himself, and his thoughts were probably self loathing enough to be considered suicidal. To top it off, like fuck he would admit anything to the self-righteous Pharaoh. It was miserable enough to be babysat by him whilst dealing with the physical awfulness of illness.

Yami rested his elbows on his uncrossed knees as he leaned forward, peering into Bakura's eyes. "Did I say something…?" He trailed off, and the concerned softness in his face hardened as if he realized he was talking to Bakura rather than his naïve little host. Partner. Whatever the Pharaoh and his bitch called themselves. The lines of his face remained harsh as he asked a new, less apprehension-fueled question.

"Regardless, you really do need to be more appreciative…" Bakura drowned out the stupidity that threatened to make him feel more shitty and flopped over and resumed lying face down on the couch.

…

An hour of silence passed. Yami started tapping his fingers again, and Bakura gritted his teeth, the rhythmic noise awakening him from the farce of a nap his unintentional dozing off had been. He tossed the remote to Yami, as the illness reared its ugly head. Great.

"Oh, thank you." Yami turned on the television to some loud cooking show. Bakura shuddered as the sounds of banging pots and pans ricocheted in his head, sending aches down his body. Yami stared at the television. Attempting to glean information from Bakura (and likely silently apologize for his accusations earlier), he commented, "It really was considerate of you to force Ryou into leaving."

"Leave me alone," Bakura muttered, refusing to act on the pain radiating in his skull less the Pharaoh caught on to his weaknesses.

Silence descended again, before Bakura threw himself at the mercy of the gods, querying, "Why aren't you participating? Too little recognition?" He smirked.

Yami looked away, uncomfortable. "I wanted to give Yugi a chance to shine." He scratched his bare arm. Bakura noticed he stopped before causing any damage. Something heavy dropped in his stomach.

"How noble," he sneered.

Yami scowled, quickly back pedaling. "It's none of your business anyway." He leaned forward, and ugly smirk on his face. "I'm doing you a favor."

Bakura heard the silent: "so you better be behaved" in Yami's condescending words. His stomach curdled. And the fight, round two opened. He shifted on the couch, lying on his side to alleviate the discomfort. Bakura pressed a hand to his nose, even the leftover aroma of Ryou's breakfast made bile creep up his throat.

Yami peered at Bakura. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, before giving up the battle, and running to the toilet by the kitchen, a hand clamped over his mouth. Yami followed at his heels, as he slumped to the floor in front of the toilet, and was violently ill.

…

Bakura rested his pounding head against the cool plastic toilet rim after the heaving gasps quelled. After not eating much for the past week, his throat burned from acid and his stomach cramped as it had nothing to reject. He wiped a fleck of bile from his lips with his sleeve.

Yami touched his arm; Bakura hissed at the pain that flared up at the action. He jerked his arm away, head aching and body trembling. "I'll do it myself," he snapped. Grasping a roll of toilet paper, he cleaned off his face and tossed the used bits into the toilet, flushing as he stood on shaky legs.

He walked away from Yami, who called out after him, and headed to his room. He closed and locked his door, slumping against his bed, letting the liquid in his smarting eyes dribble over. He cried, silently gasping, and feeling all the more ashamed as tears continued to come. He curled into a ball, only half hearing the conversation Yami had outside his closed door. He pressed a hand to his arm, hissing at the unexpected warmth.

…

Yami glanced at Bakura's closed door as he waited for Ryou to pick up his mobile. He had the phone cord stretched out to its limit, standing at the edge of the hallway as he tried to listen to what Bakura was doing. After he locked himself in his room, Yami tried to coax him out to no avail nor scathing retort. Ten minutes passed before Yami, glancing at the time on the clock on the television screen, dialed Ryou's mobile number.

Ryou answered after a couple rings, breathing, "What's wrong?"

Yami squirmed, shifting his weight from on foot to the other as he spoke into the receiver. "He was sick, and now…" He trailed off, waving a hand at Bakura's door as if Ryou could see where he was motioning.

"I'm coming home," Ryou said immediately. Over the phone, Yami could hear Ryou apologizing to whomever he was standing with, possibly Tristan and Tea, and saying his goodbyes. "I'll call Kaiba on my way."

Yami agreed. The plan had been to utilize Kaiba's personal doctor, for ease of treatment without messy paperwork trying to keep Bakura's identity accurate after Ryou returned from the dueling tournament. Yami deduced he was bumping up the visit.

…

Yami slammed a fist on the closed and locked door to Bakura's room, calling out, "Bakura!" He had just hung up with Ryou, returned the phone to the dining room and released his tight grip on the cord. Now, Yami walked back to the hallway, right outside Bakura's bedroom door and started banging.

Silence.

Yami pounded on the door again, this time with more urgency and franticness as he yelled Bakura's name through the door. There was a definite sound of movement and Yami was certain he heard a muttered expletive or two, before Bakura's voice, hoarse and raspy, drifted into the hallway, "For fuck's sake, what?"

Yami frowned, but chose to convey the information from Ryou regardless. "I called Ryou. He's going to call the doctor on his way," he trailed off, leaving the implication that Bakura should make himself presentable silent.

"Good," an acerbic reply was all Yami got.

He cupped an ear and pressed himself against the solid wood door trying to hear the sounds behind. When the minute sounds of choking and suppressed gasping met his ears, he stepped back, knocking on the door once again. "Bakura…Can I come in?"

Yami had one hand resting lightly on the door and he shifted his body weight so he leaned slightly towards the wood, so when the door was violently unlocked and ripped open in one motion, he nearly went flying headfirst into Bakura's room. His attention averted to keeping himself upright, and he missed the small smirk gracing Bakura's lips or the moisture drying on his cheeks.

"What?" Bakura asked. He turned his head away before Yami had a chance to adjust to his loss of balance. "You don't need to worry. I'll be ready for Kaiba's bitch of a doctor."

Yami tried and failed to meet Bakura's gaze as the other kept his head pointedly affixed to the wall above his bed. "His name is Dr. Satou," he offered. "And he'll be coming here."

…

A/N:

This isn't an absolute rule, but toilets in Japan are made with more plastic pieces than toilet that I'm familiar with—that are porcelain (fake or not).

Healthcare in Japan is not something I'm familiar with. I know the basics: they have hospitals and doctors, but the little intricacies, I'm sure I'm going to mess them up in the coming chapter. I imaging Japan is like anywhere else: if you have money, you have access to any kind of medical care your heart desires, so Dr. Satou paying a house visit, since he's Kaiba's personal doctor, is within reason.

So, what do you guys think is wrong with poor Bakura? ^_^

I brought up this idea last chapter, but I thought I would ask again: is there anything you want me to write about? Especially because Bakura and Yami are going to become friendlier fairly soon. The fall arc starts in two chapters, and I'm short on ideas, if anyone wants to offer anything, I'll credit you if I use it (consciously).


	19. Dr Satou

A/N: I'm still not sure if I want to put this author note here, but I thought the least I could do is offer an explanation why I disappeared for four months. If you don't mind or want to read my ramblings, please skip ahead to the chapter.

A reviewer asked if I was okay, and I chose not to answer because I didn't want to burden them with, well, me. I'm sure it's blatantly obvious considering what topic I write about, I have similar issues as some of the characters, and it was a long, miserable, bleak summer. I wasn't able to write or be creative at all.

Also, when I could write, I was so frustrated with this chapter and the months I spent agonizing on the character of Dr. Satou (cause he's important!), I fell into a writer's block too. My reasoning aside, enjoy this chapter. I hope you like it (I never want to look at it again)!

…

RYC to Guest: Thank you for your review! Read this chapter and see what happens... ^_^

RYC to another (or the same?) Guest: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it. Keep reading. ^_^

…

Chapter 19: Dr. Satou

…

Bakura dropped his head into his palms, as he slouched over on his bed. The silence of the room mocked him as Yami's footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors as the former pharaoh slinked off after yet another failed attempt to coerce Bakura into opening his bedroom door.

Fuck me, he thought angrily, even as hot liquid coated his hands as he scratched at his eyebrows. He hated himself for the uncharacteristic display of emotion, and it only further increased the tears leaking from his eyes.

He choked down a breath, resolution halting the awful fit, just as Yami returned moments later. A pause as the idiot outside his door sucked in a deep breath as if to brace himself for the next battle of wills. "Bakura?"

"What?" he drawled in a long, resigned sigh. "What more could you add to this shitty day?" He ignored the accompanying sigh from the other side of the door at his melodramatic remark. It wasn't exaggerated if the statement described the situation perfectly. Hell, most days he felt that way—unless, of course, he physically harmed himself.

Nauseous, head pounding, cut inflamed on his arm, Bakura allowed himself to succumb to the ever present misery. Yami banged a fist into the closed door. Leaning his head against his fist, Yami propped himself so his nose nearly touched the wood. He narrowed his eyes, and the notches in the wood blurred. "Look, Ryou will be home soon, then the doctor will be here. Why don't you just come out?" Disdain dripped from Yami's words.

Bakura heard the silence where he would have filled with: for fuck's sake. Anger restoring some of the strength he had vomited away and rage burned away the god awful emotion, Bakura jerked himself upright so he was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I told you before," irritation bubbled over as he was forced to repeat himself, "fuck off and I'll be ready when he gets here. Fuck!"

As Yami's footsteps plodded away, down the hall, thankfully and finally, Bakura's rigid posture relaxed into a slouch. He let sections of hair fall in his face and cling to his wet cheeks.

…

Dr. Satou arrived, not long after Ryou, knocking on the apartment door. He was a tall, slim, older man with graying hair and glasses. He smiled genially at Yami and Ryou, though never actually meeting their gazes, very much unlike Yami's perception of a doctor who worked with Kaiba. In fact, he was reminded somewhat of a humbler version of Solomon's friend, Arthur Hawkins.

"Hello, my name's Dr. Satou." He bowed to Ryou, then Yami. Yami murmured a response, nodding his head in a bow.

Ryou led Dr. Satou to Bakura's room, pausing outside the door. "I should wake him first," he explained. Mumbling more to himself, "He's not going to be happy."

Dr. Satou shifted the bag in his hands. "Most sick people aren't." He stepped back, standing in the edge of the doorway, to allow Ryou and Bakura a moment of privacy.

"Hey, Bakura," Ryou said as he patted Bakura's back, not looking near his face where tears still stained his face. Bakura groaned, flopping an arm against the comforter. "There's a doctor here to look at you."

When Bakura sat up, Ryou offered, "Why don't you go get cleaned up and he'll see you?"

Bakura glowered, but his stomach still gurgled sickly, so he just nodded, and did as Ryou suggested, stepping past a non descript older man (likely the doctor Ryou and Yami mentioned) on his way to the bathroom. He washed his face and hands, and returned to his room, where Ryou had cleared off his desk and the accompanying chair.

…

Dr. Satou bowed to Bakura, entering the room after him. Ryou sat on the bed next to Bakura as Dr. Satou began questioning Bakura from his desk chair.

"I heard you've been sick for a little over a week," he said, jotting down an affirmation on his clipboard when Bakura shrugged, and at Ryou's reproach, elaborated with, "Longer. I think three weeks?"

Ryou's gaze met him, a pair of upraised eyebrows and a frown. "Three weeks? Why didn't you say anything?! That's practically all break!"

Dr. Satou lifted his eyes from his clipboard, silencing Ryou's worried tirade. "That could be the sign of something more serious. The length of time is especially concerning. Have you had any other symptoms, besides flu like?" He ticked off items with his fingers as he offered examples of flu symptoms. "Nausea and vomiting, body aches and weakness, a temperature."

Bakura nodded, and rubbed at his arm. He bit back a grimace at the pain radiating from one cut. Dr. Satou narrowed his eyes as he witnessed his patient rubbing his covered arms. He looked at Ryou, and spoke to him, "I think we might get further, if we were alone. If you don't mind?" The words came out in a chaotic tumble that even Bakura recognized as not professional.

If his thoughts weren't firing off rapidly in fear of his cutting being found out, he might've smirked as Ryou jumped up. "Of course!" He lingered at the doorway. "Would you like the door closed?"

Dr. Satou nodded, distracted, as his right hand halted, and the pen enclosed within his grip stopped scratching against paper. "Er, yes. Thank you."

Bakura bristled when Dr. Satou's gaze returned to him. A dead weight jammed up his throat, and without being fully cognizant, he knew Dr. Satou at least suspected. He leaned against the wall, pressing his arms to himself.

"I thought you would prefer the physical tests done in private," Dr. Satou explained. His gaze had since returned to his clipboard, as if following commands to avoid gazing directly into another's eyes. Bakura noted he hadn't truly met Ryou's gaze, even as he awkwardly asked him to leave. Maybe that's how the doctor worked well with Kaiba; he never felt the rich bastard's venomous glowers of hatred.

The exam went relatively smoothly from there. Dr. Satou retrieved his medical bag from where he had set it near the door and proceeded to remove the standard set of tools. Bakura nearly sagged against his bed in relief. So Dr. Satou wasn't as observant as he thought. Besides, Bakura reasoned, the guy's so old, be might be completely blind. He remembered this from GP visits Ryou had every year. First, went on the rubber gloves, and the exam began.

"I need to check your heart and the status of your internal organs," Dr. Satou stated as he positioned the stethoscope evenly around his neck. Bakura sat up straightly, repressing the urge to flinch, as Dr. Satou's hands crept up his shirt. Between his memories from Ryou and Dr. Satou's continued explanations as he checked Bakura's front and back with the cold metal of the stethoscope, this was part of a typical physical. Or, in his case, a routine checking to diagnose his illness.

And a gateway to providing prescription pills to annihilate this flu. Bakura remained stoically silent, shrugging only when Dr. Satou addressed him. He silently allowed the older man to prod his mouth and ears with an otoscope.

Blood pressure, please," Dr. Satou said as he brandished an analog blood pressure machine. "If you could lift your sleeve, please?" He asked pleasantly as he glanced at Bakura's sleeve covered arm. "Or, if it would be easier, you can remove the garment entirely."

Yeah. Fuck, no. "I'm cold," Bakura said tersely. He glared down at his lap as Dr. Satou's eyes bore into the fabric of his sleeve as he twisted it inside his clenched fist.

After a moment, Dr. Satou spoke in a light voice, apparently unconcerned why his patient was clad in long sleeves during the last week of the hottest month, "That's fine. I'll take it over your sleeve, then."

Bakura nearly jumped when he wrapped the upper portion of his arm with the blood pressure cuff. Not acknowledging his reactions, Dr. Satou continued to speak, "It won't be a perfect reading, but I should still get a good idea." Bakura attempted to regulate his breaths as the aneroid gauge rotated round, and reversed. The cuff dug into his arm, similarly to the constricting in his chest. He beat down the emotion. Apparently money doesn't buy perfection, and it's not like Kaiba's doctor noticed his arms yet anyway.

That, or he was easily duped. "A little high, but that could be the fabric of your shirt or just nerves." He smiled pleasantly at the end of his explanation. Bakura shrugged. Sure, normal fear-of-doctor nerves, not fear-of-getting-found-out-and-locked-up nerves.

He relaxed a fraction when Dr. Satou returned the medial paraphernalia to his bag. Now, he would announce Bakura's diagnosis, write a script, and problem solved.

When Dr. Satou turned around after zipping shut his bag, his face had hardened. The polite façade froze to professional decorum, and Bakura could not remember an instance in Ryou's memories that a doctor had gazed at him with such an intense look.

"Well, everything points to you being a very ill young man," he said as an opening. "Normally, I would cite you having the flu, but the prolonged state of it concerns me." His eyes flashed, and Bakura's heart raced in his chest. "I do have my suspicions…"

"Why don't we make this pleasant for both of us, and you roll up your sleeve, please," Dr. Satou said in the same tone he had been using for the entire visit, a polite but neutral pitch.

Bakura held his arms tighter to himself, and Dr. Satou sighed. "Working for the Kaiba family, nothing can surprise me now," he said as a bribing chip.

Bakura snarled, anger fueling his actions. "Are you telling me rich boy does this?" He shoved up the sleeve on his non dominant arm revealing the scars and the pus-filled, inflamed cut.

"Well, not that I'm aware," Dr. Satou said without missing a beat. He stroked his short clipped beard. "However this explains your long run flu."

Bakura, startled, let Dr. Satou grab his arm to inspect the cut. "Excuse me?"

"This cut," Dr. Satou said as he pressed a gloved finger at the edges of the cut, "it's infected."

Bakura sat in silence, even as the man momentarily excused himself to dig through his bag. When he returned to the bed, a bottle of sterile water in hand, Bakura stoically gazed past the doctor and his ministrations. He cleansed the cut as he spoke, "It's a relatively easy fix, but until it's fixed, it will make you sick as a dog. Worse if you don't get rid of the infection." Bakura repressed a flinch as Dr. Satou flushed the wound with water repeatedly.

Bakura watched the man clean out the puss and use a cotton ball to dab the cut with peroxide, before bandaging his arm. "I'm going to prescribe antibiotic for the infection, but if you keep your cuts clean, this shouldn't affect you again."

Bakura nodded. Dr. Satou sat back, and gestured to Bakura's other, covered, arm. "Will you please roll up your other sleeve?" Bakura quirked an eyebrow, and did as asked. "I thought so," Dr. Satou said as Bakura revealed another arm filled with mostly healed red and white scars. Unlike the other arm, Dr. Satou skipped over irrigating any of the cuts, and proceeded to clean the open wounds and wrap the area in gauze.

"I'll give the script to your brother," he said in reference to Ryou, confusing the muddled relationship, as Bakura yanked his sleeves down the moment Dr. Satou finished.

Bakura's heart raced to his throat. "You won't tell him about?" his voice trailed off to silence as he tried to speak the damning words.

Dr. Satou gazed at his nose (now that his accusations ended, he resumed not looking directly at Bakura) with an odd expression, a cross between empathy and stern disapproval. "I will not, but I think you should seek out help for this. The problem will only manifest." He handed one of his business cards from his lab coat pocket to Bakura.

Bakura let the words wash over him, as Dr. Satou crossed the room with his packed up equipment and script for Ryou. He glanced down at the card in his hand. It had Dr. Satou's personal name and office phone number and address along the bottom.

"Feel free to contact my office if you need a referral," were Dr. Satou's parting words. His hand lingered on the door knob, and Bakura caught sight of several almost faded white scars on Dr. Satou's wrist as his sleeve caught on the wood frame.

The door closed, leaving Bakura to his racing thoughts. What the fuck? He blinked quickly, trying to rewind the past minute or so. He swore he had seen the tell-tale flash of white scars, much like his own, especially the older scars from last April. He hadn't thought anyone else had done this. Of course, he knew there were others. Someone else, at least, must cut themselves, he knew—especially since their psychology class late last term had spent ten minutes in class going over self mutilation.

He remembered the ten long minutes of sweat dripping down his back. He expected everyone's gaze to narrow in on him and his long sleeves, but even his most studious peers were staring out the windows longingly at the July sun. Even Ryou had been so entrenched by his eating disorder back then, he hadn't been paying most lectures any attention.

He rolled up his sleeves to gaze at the older scars on his arms. He flicked at the gauze neatly wrapped on his arms. Through his baggy tee shirt, he was unable to make out the gauze, thankfully. He considered Dr. Satou's comment on keeping the cuts clean. It hadn't taken that long to clean out even the puffy, infected cut from three weeks ago. He supposed, he ought to include cleaning his cuts after a round as sort of a routine.

The nasty thought:_ so you aren't going to stop then _niggled at him, and Bakura collapsed against the bed, feeling something besides ill. He tugged his sleeves over his hands, trying to process the last hour, and waited for his heart rate to slow.

…

Ryou bit at his thumb nail when, after almost a full hour passed, Dr. Satou left Bakura's room, closing the door behind him. An action that reminded him he wasn't privy to every aspect of Bakura's life. He straightened his sleeves and readjusted his bag before he noticed Ryou standing at the edge of the living room.

"Er, what's wrong with him?" Ryou nearly squeaked when Dr. Satou looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"He's fine. Just a touch of summer flu." He handed Ryou the script for antibiotics. "Bacterial. He should fell better within a couple days once he starts the medication."

"Thank you," Ryou said with a bow.

Dr. Satou crossed the living room, into the kitchen and slipped on his shoes as he entered the genkan. "Keep an eye on him. Seems he doesn't like to let other people in."

"Um…Right?" Thinking about Bakura's admission on the length of his illness, Ryou missed Dr. Satou's lips thinning in bitter remembrance.

After the doctor exited the apartment, Ryou guided himself to his favorite chair in the living room. He bent his legs underneath him, and leaned forward, elbows resting upon knees, and chin pressed into his palms. Three weeks. Bakura had been ill for almost the entirety of holiday break, and he hadn't noticed.

Dr. Satou's warning circled his thoughts, coiling tightly as guilt in his stomach. "Keep an eye on him." Sure, he had been distracted with his eating disorder, too hungry and ill to look past himself, but after that… If Bakura was hiding something as overt as the flu from him… Was Kaiba's family doctor trying to alert him of something?

His ruminations on the unpleasant thoughts dissipated as the home phone rang shrilly. He uncurled himself, walked over to the phone, and greeted the person on the other end with mechanical motions.

"Hello, Bakura residence?"

A pause from the other end, then, "Hey Ryou."

"Yugi." His voice filled with warmth as his friend's cheerful tone washed away the guilty thoughts.

"Um, you see," Yugi's laughed down the line as the distinct voice of Yami intruded into the conversation.

"Just want to know if he's okay, is all," Yami's voice thinned with a touch of petulance. Ryou smirked, covering his twitching lips in reflex.

"Tell Yami, Bakura is fine. I'm going to fill his prescription shortly," Ryou assured Yami via Yugi, who relayed the message back by shouting at the other without the nicety of covering the mouthpiece.

Ryou winced. "Yeah, I'm just going to head up that way. I don't think it matters as long as it's a family store," Ryou answered Yugi's where's how's and when's.

"I can run and get it," Yami offered from the background.

Ryou felt an eyebrow quirk without his volition. "Um, that's not really necessary."

"Actually," Yugi said, speaking over the confused Ryou and overly helpful Yami, "You can't get it anyway, since Ryou has the script."

"Oh." A silence from Yami, then he spoke in a nonchalant manner. Ryou could practically envision his arm gesturing madly. "Thought I'd offer."

"Um, thank you, regardless," Ryou said politely. He let the phone conversation dwindle into pleasantries, and hung up the receiver with a click. Well, he thought. That was strange. He grasped Bakura's prescription and called out his departure to Bakura, before slipping on tennis shoes and making his way cross-town to the closest pharmacy, incidentally near the Mouto's, to fill Bakura's prescription.

…

A/N: Health care in Japan. I'm still not very knowledgeable on the subject, so any mistakes I made are hopefully not glaringly obvious. Please correct me if I am wrong, but I can't promise mistakes will be fixed right away, because I' so freaking sick of this chapter.

In Japan there are two types of pharmacies: family run ones, where you can pick up medication from with a prescription authorized by a doctor, and convenience store like brands—like a CVS or Rite Aid, but you cannot get prescription medications at these. The family run pharmacies are usually located near doctors' offices, so I'm pretending the Mouto's live near a doctor.

In regards to the house call, well it's fanfiction, and Kaiba is rich, so he can probably afford that luxury. I'm fairly certain Japanese minors are subject to the same privacy  
(or lack thereof) laws like in the USA, so I'm not saying Dr. Satou's lack of informing Bakura's guardian (Solomon Mouto) is exactly legal or professional, but he's not getting found out quite yet…


End file.
